HI 


THE  LOST  GIRL 


THE  LOST  GIRL 


BY 

D.  H.  LAWRENCE 


NEW  YORK 

THOMAS  SELTZER 

1921 


Copyright,  1921,  by 
THOMAS  SELTZER,  INC. 


All  rights  reserved 

First  Printing,  February,  1921 
Second  Printing,  February,  1921 


PEINTED    IN    THB    UNITED    STATES    OF    AMERICA 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 


PAGE 


I  THE  DECLINE  OF  MANCHESTER  HOUSE  ....  7 

II  THE  RISE  OF  ALVINA  HOUGHTON 27 

III  THE  MATERNITY  NURSE 36 

IV  Two  WOMEN  DIE 49 

V  THE  BEAU 64 

VI  HOUGHTON'S  LAST  ENDEAVOUR 95 

VII  NATCHA-KEE-TAWARA 130 

VIII  Ciccio        164 

IX  ALVINA  BECOMES  ALLAYE 191 

X  THE  FALL  OF  MANCHESTER  HOUSE 235 

XI  HONOURABLE  ENGAGEMENT 273 

XII  ALLAYE  ALSO  Is  ENGAGED 304 

XIII  THE  WEDDED  WIFE 317 

XIV  THE  JOURNEY  ACROSS 327 

XV  THE  PLACE  CALLED  CALIFANO 350 

XVI  SUSPENSE                                                              .  359 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  DECLINE   OF  MANCHESTER  HOUSE 

TAKE  a  mining  townlet  like  Woodhouse,  with  a  population 
of  ten  thousand  people,  and  three  generations  behind  it.  This 
space  of  three  generations  argues  a  certain  well-established 
society.  The  old  "  County  "  has  fled  from  the  sight  of  so  much 
disembowelled  coal,  to  flourish  on  mineral  rights  in  regions 
still  idyllic.  Remains  one  great  and  inaccessible  magnate, 
the  local  coal  owner:  three  generations  old,  and  clambering 
on  the  bottom  step  of  the  "  County,"  kicking  off  the  mass 
below.  Rule  him  out. 

A  well  established  society  in  Woodhouse,  full  of  fine  shades, 
ranging  from  the  dark  of  coal-dust  to  grit  of  stone-mason  and 
sawdust  of  timber-merchant,  through  the  lustre  of  lard  and 
butter  and  meat,  to  the  perfume  of  the  chemist  and  the  disin- 
fectant of  the  doctor,  on  to  the  serene  gold-tarnish  of  bank- 
managers,  cashiers  for  the  firm,  clergymen  and  such-like,  as 
far  as  the  automobile  refulgence  of  the  general-manager  of 
all  the  collieries.  Here  the  ne  plus  ultra.  The  general  man- 
ager lives  in  the  shrubberied  seclusion  of  the  so-called  Manor. 
The  genuine  Hall,  abandoned  by  the  "  County,"  has  been  taken 
over  as  offices  by  the  firm. 

Here  we  are  then:  a  vast  substratum  of  colliers;  a  thick 
sprinkling  of  tradespeople  intermingled  with  small  employers 
of  labour  and  diversified  by  elementary  schoolmasters  and 
nonconformist  clergy;  a  higher  layer  of  bank-managers,  rich 
millers  and  well-to-do  ironmasters,  episcopal  clergy  and  the 
managers  of  collieries,  then  the  rich  and  sticky  cherry  of  the 
local  coal-owner  glistening  over  all. 

Such  the  complicated  social  system  of  a  small  industrial 
town  in  the  Midlands  of  England,  in  this  year  of  grace  1920. 
But  let  us  go  back  a  little.  Such  it  was  in  the  last  calm  year 
of  plenty,  1913. 

A  calm  year  of  plenty.  But  one  chronic  and  dreary 
malady:  that  of  the  odd  women.  Why,  in  the  name  of  all 
prosperity,  should  every  class  but  the  lowest  in  such  a 

7 


8  THE  LOST  GIRL 

society  hang  overburdened  with  Dead  Sea  fruit  of  odd 
women,  unmarried,  unmanageable  women,  called  old  maids? 
Why  is  it  that  every  tradesman,  every  school-master,  every 
bank-manager,  and  every  clergyman  produces  one,  two,  three 
or  more  old  maids?  Do  the  middle-classes,  particularly  the 
lower  middle-classes,  give  birth  to  more  girls  than  boys?  Or 
do  the  lower  middle-class  men  assiduously  climb  up  or  down,  in 
marriage,  thus  leaving  their  true  partners  stranded?  Or  are 
middle-class  women  very  squeamish  in  their  choice  of  hus- 
bands? 

However  it  be,  it  is  a  tragedy.     Or  perhaps  it  is  not. 

Perhaps  these  unmarried  women  of  the  middle-classes  are 
the  famous  sexless-workers  of  our  ant-industrial  society,  of 
which  we  hear  so  much.  Perhaps  all  they  lack  is  an  occupa- 
tion: in  short,  a  job.  But  perhaps  we  might  hear  their  own 
opinion,  before  we  lay  the  law  down. 

In  Woodhouse,  there  was  a  terrible  crop  of  old  maids 
among  the  "nobs,"  the  tradespeople  and  the  clergy.  The 
whole  town  of  women,  colliers'  wives  and  all,  held  its  breath 
as  it  saw  a  chance  of  one  of  these  daughters  of  comfort  and 
woe  getting  off.  They  flocked  to  the  well-to-do  weddings 
with  an  intoxication  of  relief.  For  let  class-jealousy  be 
what  it  may,  a  woman  hates  to  see  another  woman  left  stalely 
on  the  shelf,  without  a  chance.  They  all  wanted  the  middle- 
class  girls  to  find  husbands.  Every  one  wanted  it,  including 
the  girls  themselves.  Hence  the  dismalness. 

Now  James  Houghton  had  only  one  child:  his  daughter 
Alvina.  Surely  Alvina  Houghton  

But  let  us  retreat  to  the  early  eighties,  when  Alvina  was  a 
baby:  or  even  further  back,  to  the  palmy  days  of  James 
Houghton.  In  his  palmy  days,  James  Houghton  was  creme 
de  la  creme  of  Woodhouse  society.  The  house  of  Houghton 
had  always  been  well-to-do:  tradespeople,  we  must  admit; 
but  after  a  few  generations  of  affluence,  tradespeople  acquire  a 
distinct  cachet.  Now  James  Houghton,  at  the  age  of  twenty- 
eight,  inherited  a  splendid  business  in  Manchester  goods,  in 
Woodhouse.  He  was  a  tall,  thin,  elegant  young  man  with  side- 
whiskers,  genuinely  refined,  somewhat  in  the  Bulwer  style. 
He  had  a  taste  for  elegant  conversation  and  elegant  litera- 
ture and  elegant  Christianity:  a  tall,  thin,  brittle  young  man, 
rather  fluttering  in  his  manner,  full  of  facile  ideas,  and  with 
a  beautiful  speaking  voice:  most  beautiful.  Withal,  of  course, 


THE  DECLINE  OF  MANCHESTER  HOUSE  9 

a  tradesman.  He  courted  a  small,  dark  woman,  older  than 
himself,  daughter  of  a  Derbyshire  squire.  He  expected  to 
get  at  least  ten  thousand  pounds  with  her.  In  which  he  was 
disappointed,  for  he  got  only  eight  hundred.  Being  of  a 
romantic-commercial  nature,  he  never  forgave  her,  but  al- 
ways treated  her  with  the  most  elegant  courtesy.  To  see  him 
peel  and  prepare  an  apple  for  her  was  an  exquisite  sight. 
But  that  peeled  and  quartered  apple  was  her  portion.  This 
elegant  Adam  of  commerce  gave  Eve  her  own  back,  nicely 
cored,  and  had  no  more  to  do  with  her.  Meanwhile  Alvina 
was  born. 

Before  all  this,  however,  before  his  marriage,  James  Hough- 
ton  had  built  Manchester  House.  It  was  a  vast  square  build- 
ing —  vast,  that  is,  for  Woodhouse  —  standing  on  the  main 
street  and  highroad  of  the  small  but  growing  town.  The 
lower  front  consisted  of  two  fine  shops,  one  for  Manchester 
goods,  one  for  silk  and  woollens.  This  was  James  Houghton's 
commercial  poem. 

For  James  Houghton  was  a  dreamer,  and  something  of  a 
poet:  commercial,  be  it  understood.  He  liked  the  novels  of 
George  Macdonald,  and  the  fantasies  of  that  author,  extremely. 
He  wove  one  continual  fantasy  for  himself,  a  fantasy  of  com- 
merce. He  dreamed  of  silks  and  poplins,  luscious  in  tex- 
ture and  of  unforeseen  exquisiteness :  he  dreamed  of  carriages 
of  the  "  County  "  arrested  before  his  windows,  of  exquisite 
women  ruffling  charmed,  entranced  to  his  counter.  And  charm- 
ing, entrancing,  he  served  them  his  lovely  fabrics,  which  only 
he  and  they  could  sufficiently  appreciate.  His  fame  spread, 
until  Alexandra,  Princess  of  Wales,  and  Elizabeth,  Empress 
of  Austria,  the  two  best-dressed  women  in  Europe,  floated 
down  from  heaven  to  the  shop  in  Woodhouse,  and  sallied  forth 
to  show  what  could  be  done  by  purchasing  from  James  Hough- 
ton. 

We  cannot  say  why  James  Houghton  failed  to  become  the 
Liberty  or  the  Snelgrove  of  his  day.  Perhaps  he  had  too 
much  imagination.  Be  that  as  it  may,  in  those  early  days 
when  he  brought  his  wife  to  her  new  home,  his  window  on 
the  Manchester  side  was  a  foam  and  a  mayblossom  of  mus- 
lins and  prints,  his  window  on  the  London  side  was  an 
autumn  evening  of  silks  and  rich  fabrics.  What  wife  could 
fail  to  be  dazzled!  But  she,  poor  darling,  from  her  stone 
hall  in  stony  Derbyshire,  was  a  little  bit  repulsed  by  the 


10  THE  LOST  GIRL 

man's  dancing  in  front  of  his  stock,  like  David  before  the 
ark. 

The  home  to  which  he  brought  her  was  a  monument.  In 
the  great  bedroom  over  the  shop  he  had  his  furniture  built: 
built  of  solid  mahogany:  oh  too,  too  solid.  No  doubt  he 
hopped  or  skipped  himself  with  satisfaction  into  the  monstrous 
matrimonial  bed :  it  could  only  be  mounted  by  means  of  a 
stool  and  chair.  But  the  poor,  secluded  little  woman,  older 
than  he,  must  have  climbed  up  with  a  heavy  heart,  to  lie  and 
face  the  gloomy  Bastille  of  mahogany,  the  great  cupboard  op- 
posite, or  to  turn  wearily  sideways  to  the  great  cheval  mirror, 
which  performed  a  perpetual  and  hideous  bow  before  her 
grace.  Such  furniture!  It  could  never  be  removed  from 
the  room. 

The  little  child  was  born  in  the  second  year.  And  then 
James  Houghton  decamped  to  a  small,  half-furnished  bed- 
room at  the  other  end  of  the  house,  where  he  slept  on  a 
rough  board  and  played  the  anchorite  for  the  rest  of  his 
days.  His  wife  was  left  alone  with  her  baby  and  the  built- 
in  furniture.  She  developed  heart  disease,  as  a  result  of  ner- 
vous repressions. 

But  like  a  butterfly  James  fluttered  over  his  fabrics.  He 
was  a  tyrant  to  his  shop-girls.  No  French  marquis  in  a  Dick- 
ens' novel  could  have  been  more  elegant  and  raffine  and  heart- 
less. The  girls  detested  him.  And  yet,  his  curious  refine- 
ment and  enthusiasm  bore  them  away.  They  submitted  to 
him.  The  shop  attracted  much  curiosity.  But  the  poor- 
spirited  Woodhouse  people  were  weak  buyers.  They  wearied 
James  Houghton  with  their  demand  for  common  zephyrs,  for 
red  flannel  which  they  would  scallop  with  black  worsted,  for 
black  alpacas  and  bombazines  and  merinos.  He  fluffed  out 
his  silk-striped  muslins,  his  India  cotton-prints.  But  the 
natives  shied  off  as  if  he  had  offered  them  the  poisoned  robes 
of  Herakles. 

There  was  a  sale.  These  sales  contributed  a  good  deal 
to  Mrs.  Houghton's  nervous  heart-disease.  They  brought  the 
first  signs  of  wear  and  tear  into  the  face  of  James  Houghton. 
At  first,  of  course,  he  merely  marked  down,  with  discretion, 
his  less-expensive  stock  of  prints  and  muslins,  nuns-veilings 
and  muslin  delaines,  with  a  few  fancy  braidings  and  trim- 
mings in  guimp  or  bronze  to  enliven  the  affair.  And  Wood- 
house  bought  cautiously. 


THE  DECLINE  OF  MANCHESTER  HOUSE         11 

After  the  sale,  however,  James  Houghton  felt  himself  at 
liberty  to  plunge  into  an  orgy  of  new  stock.  He  flitted, 
with  a  tense  look  on  his  face,  to  Manchester.  After  which 
huge  bundles,  bales  and  boxes  arrived  in  Woodhouse,  and 
were  dumped  on  the  pavement  of  the  shop.  Friday  even- 
ing came,  and  with  it  a  revelation  in  Houghton's  window: 
the  first  piques,  the  first  strangely-woven  and  honey-combed 
toilet  covers  and  bed  quilts,  the  first  frill-caps  and  aprons  for 
maid-servants:  a  wonder  in  white.  That  was  how  James 
advertised  it.  "A  Wonder  in  White."  Who  knows  but 
that  he  had  been  reading  Wilkie  Collins'  famous  novel ! 

As  the  nine  days  of  the  wonder-in-white  passed  and  re- 
ceded, James  disappeared  in  the  direction  of  London.  A 
few  Fridays  later  he  came  out  with  his  Winter  Touch.  Weird 
and  wonderful  winter  coats,  for  ladies  —  everything  James 
handled  was  for  ladies,  he  scorned  the  coarser  sex —  :  weird 
and  wonderful  winter  coats  for  ladies,  of  thick,  black,  pock- 
marked cloth,  stood  and  flourished  their  bear-fur  cuffs  in  the 
back-ground,  while  tippets,  boas,  muffs  and  winter-fancies 
coquetted  in  front  of  the  window-space.  Friday-night  crowds 
gathered  outside:  the  gas-lamps  shone  their  brightest:  James 
Houghton  hovered  in  the  back-ground  like  an  author  on  his 
first  night  in  the  theatre.  The  result  was  a  sensation.  Ten 
villages  stared  and  crushed  round  the  plate  glass.  It  was 
a  sensation:  but  what  sensation!  In  the  breasts  of  the  crowd, 
wonder,  admiration,  fear,  and  ridicule.  Let  us  stress  the 
word  fear.  The  inhabitants  of  Woodhouse  were  afraid  lest 
James  Houghton  should  impose  his  standards  upon  them. 
His  goods  were  in  excellent  taste:  but  his  customers  were  in 
as  bad  taste  as  possible.  They  stood  outside  and  pointed, 
giggled,  and  jeered.  Poor  James,  like  an  author  on  his  first 
night,  saw  his  work  fall  more  than  flat. 

But  still  he  believed  in  his  own  excellence:  and  quite  justly. 
What  he  failed  to  perceive  was  that  the  crowd  hated  excel- 
lence. Woodhouse  wanted  a  gently  graduated  progress  in 
mediocrity,  a  mediocrity  so  stale  and  flat  that  it  fell  outside 
the  imagination  of  any  sensitive  mortal.  Woodhouse  wanted 
a  series  of  vulgar  little  thrills,  as  one  tawdry  mediocrity  was 
imported  from  Nottingham  or  Birmingham  to  take  the  place 
of  some  tawdry  mediocrity  which  Nottingham  and  Birming- 
ham had  already  discarded.  That  Woodhouse,  as  a  very  con- 
dition of  its  own  being,  hated  any  approach  to  originality  or 


12  THE  LOST  GIRL 

real  taste,  this  James  Houghton  could  never  learn.  He  thought 
he  had  not  been  clever  enough,  when  he  had  been  far,  far  too 
clever  already.  He  always  thought  that  Dame  Fortune  was  a 
capricious  and  fastidious  dame,  a  sort  of  Elizabeth  of  Austria 
or  Alexandra,  Princess  of  Wales,  elegant  beyond  his  grasp. 
Whereas  Dame  Fortune,  even  in  London  or  Vienna,  let  alone  in 
Woodhouse,  was  a  vulgar  woman  of  the  middle  and  lower 
middle-class,  ready  to  put  her  heavy  foot  on  anything  that 
was  not  vulgar,  machine-made,  and  appropriate  to  the  herd. 
When  he  saw  his  delicate  originalities,  as  well  as  his  faint 
flourishes  of  draper's  fantasy,  squashed  flat  under  the  calm 
and  solid  foot  of  vulgar  Dame  Fortune,  he  fell  into  fits  of 
depression  bordering  on  mysticism,  and  talked  to  his  wife  in 
a  vague  way  of  higher  influences  and  the  angel  Israfel.  She, 
poor  lady,  was  thoroughly  scared  by  Israfel,  and  completely 
unhooked  by  the  vagaries  of  James. 

At  last  —  we  hurry  down  the  slope  of  James'  misfortunes  — 
the  real  days  of  Houghton's  Great  Sales  began.  Houghton's 
Great  Bargain  Events  were  really  events.  After  some  years 
of  hanging  on,  he  let  go  splendidly.  He  marked  down  his 
prints,  his  chintzes,  his  dimities  and  his  veilings  with  a  grand 
and  lavish  hand.  Bang  went  his  blue  pencil  through  3/11, 
and  nobly  he  subscribed  I/Of.  Prices  fell  like  nuts.  A  lofty 
one-and-eleven  rolled  down  to  six-three,  1/6  magically  shrank 
into  4fd,  whilst  good  solid  prints  exposed  themselves  at 
3f  d  per  yard. 

Now  this  was  really  an  opportunity.  Moreover  the  goods, 
having  become  a  little  stale  during  their  years  of  inetfectu- 
ality,  were  beginning  to  approximate  to  the  public  taste.  And 
besides,  good  sound  stuff  it  was,  no  matter  what  the  pattern. 
And  so  the  little  Woodhouse  girls  went  to  school  in  petties 
and  drawers  made  of  material  which  James  had  destined  for 
fair  summer  dresses:  petties  and  drawers  of  which  the  little 
Woodhouse  girls  were  ashamed,  for  all  that.  For  if  they 
should  chance  to  turn  up  their  little  skirts,  be  sure  they  would 
raise  a  chorus  among  their  companions:  "  Yah-h-h,  yer've  got 
Houghton's  threp'ny  draws  on!  " 

All  this  time  James  Houghton  walked  on  air.  He  still  saw 
the  Fata  Morgana  snatching  his  fabrics  round  her  lovely  form, 
and  pointing  him  to  wealth  untold.  True,  he  became  also 
Superintendent  of  the  Sunday  School.  But  whether  this  was 
an  act  of  vanity,  or  whether  it  was  an  attempt  to  establish 


THE  DECLINE  OF  MANCHESTER  HOUSE         13 

an  Entente   Cordiale  with   higher   powers,   who   shall   judge. 

Meanwhile  his  wife  became  more  and  more  an  invalid;  the 
little  Alvina  was  a  pretty,  growing  child.  Woodhouse  was 
really  impressed  by  the  sight  of  Mrs.  Houghton,  small,  pale 
and  withheld,  taking  a  walk  with  her  dainty  little  girl,  so 
fresh  in  an  ermine  tippet  and  a  muff.  Mrs.  Houghton  in 
shiny  black  bear's-fur,  the  child  in  the  white  and  spotted  er- 
mine, passing  silent  and  shadowy  down  the  street,  made  an 
impression  which  the  people  did  not  forget. 

But  Mrs.  Houghton  had  pains  at  her  heart.  If,  during  her 
walk,  she  saw  two  little  boys  having  a  scrimmage,  she  had  to 
run  to  them  with  pence  and  entreaty,  leaving  them  dumfounded, 
whilst  she  leaned  blue  at  the  lips  against  a  wall.  If  she  saw 
a  carter  crack  his  whip  over  the  ears  of  the  horse,  as  the 
horse  laboured  uphill,  she  had  to  cover  her  eyes  and  avert 
her  face,  and  all  her  strength  left  her. 

So  she  stayed  more  and  more  in  her  room,  and  the  child 
was  given  to  the  charge  of  a  governess.  Miss  Frost  was  a 
handsome,  vigorous  young  woman  of  about  thirty  years  of 
age,  with  grey-white  hair  and  gold-rimmed  spectacles.  The 
white  hair  was  not  at  all  tragical:  it  was  a  family  trait. 

Miss  Frost  mattered  more  than  any  one  else  to  Alvina  Hough- 
ton,  during  the  first  long  twenty-five  years  of  the  girl's  life. 
The  governess  was  a  strong,  generous  woman,  a  musician  by 
nature.  She  had  a  sweet  voice,  and  sang  in  the  choir  of  the 
chapel,  and  took  the  first  class  of  girls  in  the  Sunday-School 
of  which  James  Houghton  was  Superintendent.  She  disliked 
and  rather  despised  James  Houghton,  saw  in  him  elements  of 
a  hypocrite,  detested  his  airy  and  gracious  selfishness,  his 
lack  of  human  feeling,  and  most  of  all,  his  fairy  fantasy.  As 
James  went  further  into  life,  he  became  a  dreamer.  Sad 
indeed  that  he  died  before  the  days  of  Freud.  He  enjoyed  the 
most  wonderful  and  fairy-like  dreams,  which  he  could  describe 
perfectly,  in  charming,  delicate  language.  At  such  times  his 
beautifully  modulated  voice  all  but  sang,  his  grey  eyes  gleamed 
fiercely  under  his  bushy,  hairy  eyebrows,  his  pale  face  with 
its  side-whiskers  had  a  strange  lueur,  his  long  thin  hands  flut- 
tered occasionally.  He  had  become  meagre  in  figure,  his  skimpy 
but  genteel  coat  would  be  buttoned  over  his  breast,  as  he  re- 
counted his  dream-adventures,  adventures  that  were  half  Edgar 
Allan  Poe,  half  Andersen,  with  touches  of  Vathek  and  Lord 
Byron  and  George  Macdonald:  perhaps  more  than  a  touch  of 


14  THE  LOST  GIRL 

the  last.  Ladies  were  always  struck  by  these  accounts.  But 
Miss  Frost  never  felt  so  strongly  moved  to  impatience  as  when 
she  was  within  hearing. 

For  twenty  years,  she  and  James  Houghton  treated  each 
other  with  a  courteous  distance.  Sometimes  she  broke  into 
open  impatience  with  him,  sometimes  he  answered  her  tartly: 
"  Indeed,  indeed !  Oh,  indeed !  Well,  well,  I'm  sorry  you 
find  it  so  —  "  as  if  the  injury  consisted  in  her  finding  it  so. 
Then  he  would  flit  away  to  the  Conservative  Club,  with  a 
fleet,  light,  hurried  step,  as  if  pressed  by  fate.  At  the  club 
he  played  chess  —  at  which  he  was  excellent  —  and  con- 
versed. Then  he  flitted  back  at  half -past  twelve,  to  dinner. 

The  whole  morale  of  the  house  rested  immediately  on  Miss 
Frost.  She  saw  her  line  in  the  first  year.  She  must  defend 
the  little  Alvina,  whom  she  loved  as  her  own,  and  the  ner- 
vous, petulant,  heart-stricken  woman,  the  mother,  from  the 
vagaries  of  James.  Not  that  James  had  any  vices.  He  did 
not  drink  or  smoke,  was  abstemious  and  clean  as  an  anchorite, 
and  never  lowered  his  fine  tone.  But  still,  the  two  unpro- 
tected ones  must  be  sheltered  from  him.  Miss  Frost  impercep- 
tibly took  into  her  hands  the  reins  of  the  domestic  government. 
Her  rule  was  quiet,  strong,  and  generous.  She  was  not  seek- 
ing her  own  way.  She  was  steering  the  poor  domestic  ship 
of  Manchester  House,  illuminating  its  dark  rooms  with  her 
own  sure,  radiant  presence:  her  silver-white  hair,  and  her 
pale,  heavy,  reposeful  face  seemed  to  give  off  a  certain  ra- 
diance. She  seemed  to  give  weight,  ballast,  and  repose  to  the 
staggering  and  bewil.dered  home.  She  controlled  the  maid, 
and  suggested  the  meals  —  meals  which  James  ate  without 
knowing  what  he  ate.  She  brought  in  flowers  and  books, 
and,  very  rarely,  a  visitor.  Visitors  were  out  of  place  in  the 
dark  sombreness  of  Manchester  House.  Her  flowers  charmed 
the  petulant  invalid,  her  books  she  sometimes  discussed  with 
the  airy  James:  after  which  discussions  she  was  invariably 
filled  with  exasperation  and  impatience,  whilst  James  invari- 
ably retired  to  the  shop,  and  was  heard  raising  his  musical 
voice,  which  the  work-girls  hated,  to  one  or  other  of  the  work- 
girls. 

James  certainly  had  an  irritating  way  of  speaking  of  a 
book.  He  talked  of  incidents,  and  effects,  and  suggestions, 
as  if  the  whole  thing  had  just  been  a  sensational-aesthetic 
attribute  to  himself.  Not  a  grain  of  human  feeling  in  the 


THE  DECLINE  OF  MANCHESTER  HOUSE         15 

man,  said  Miss  Frost,  flushing  pink  with  exasperation.  She 
herself  invariably  took  the  human  line. 

Meanwhile  the  shops  began  to  take  on  a  hopeless  and  frowsy 
look.  After  ten  years'  sales,  spring  sales,  summer  sales,  au- 
tumn sales,  winter  sales,  James  began  to  give  up  the  drapery 
dream.  He  himself  could  not  bear  any  more  to  put  the  heavy, 
pock-holed  black  cloth  coat,  with  wild  bear  cuffs  and  collar,  on 
to  the  stand.  He  had  marked  it  down  from  five  guineas  to 
one  guinea,  and  then,  oh  ignoble  day,  to  ten-and-six.  He  nearly 
kissed  the  gipsy  woman  with  a  basket  of  tin  saucepan-lids, 
when  'at  last  she  bought  it  for  five  shillings,  at  the  end  of  one 
of  his  winter  sales.  But  even  she,  in  spite  of  the  bitter  sleety 
day,  would  not  put  the  coat  on  in  the  shop.  She  carried  it 
over  her  arm  down  to  the  Miners'  Arms.  And  later,  with  a 
shock  that  really  hurt  him,  James,  peeping  bird-like  out  of  his 
shop  door,  saw  her  sitting  driving  a  dirty  rag-and-bone  cart 
with  a  green-white,  mouldy  pony,  and  flourishing  her  arms  like 
some  wild  and  hairy-decorated  squaw.  For  the  long  bear-fur, 
wet  with  sleet,  seemed  like  a  chevaux  de  frise  of  long  porcu- 
pine quills  round  her  forearms  and  her  neck.  Yet  such  good, 
such  wonderful  material!  James  eyed  it  for  one  moment,  and 
then  fled  like  a  rabbit  to  the  stove  in  his  back  regions. 

The  higher  powers  did  not  seem  to  fulfil  the  terms  of 
treaty  which  James  hoped  for.  He  began  to  back  out  from 
the  Entente.  The  Sunday  School  was  a  great  trial  to  him. 
Instead  of  being  carried  away  by  his  grace  and  eloquence, 
the  nasty  louts  of  colliery  boys  and  girls  openly  banged  their 
feet  and  made  deafening  noises  when  he  tried  to  speak.  He 
said  many  acid  and  withering  things,  as  he  stood  there  on 
the  rostrum.  But  what  is  the  good  of  saying  acid  things  to 
those  little  fiends  and  gall-bladders,  the  colliery  children. 
The  situation  was  saved  by  Miss  Frost's  sweeping  together 
all  the  big  girls,  under  her  surveillance,  and  by  her  organizing 
that  the  tall  and  handsome  blacksmith  who  taught  the  lower 
boys  should  extend  his  influence  over  the  upper  boys. 
His  influence  was  more  than  effectual.  It  consisted  in  grip- 
ping any  recalcitrant  boy  just  above  the  knee,  and  jesting 
with  him  in  a  jocular  manner,  in  the  dialect.  The  blacksmith's 
hand  was  all  a  blacksmith's  hand  need  be,  and  his  dialect 
was  as  broad  as  could  be  wished.  Between  the  grip  and 
the  homely  idiom  no  boy  could  endure  without  squealing. 
So  the  Sunday  School  paid  more  attention  to  James,  whose 


16  THE  LOST  GIRL 

prayers  were  beautiful.  But  then  one  of  the  boys,  a  protege  of 
Miss  Frost,  having  been  left  for  half  an  hour  in  the  obscure 
room  with  Mrs.  Houghton,  gave  away  the  secret  of  the  black- 
smith's grip,  which  secret  so  haunted  the  poor  lady  that  it 
marked  a  stage  in  the  increase  of  her  malady,  and  made  Sun- 
day afternoon  a  nightmare  to  her.  And  then  James  Hough- 
ton  resented  something  in  the  coarse  Scotch  manner  of  the 
minister  of  that  day.  So  that  the  superintendency  of  the  Sun- 
day School  came  to  an  end. 

At  the  same  time,  Solomon  had  to  divide  his  baby.  That 
is,  he  let  the  London  side  of  his  shop  to  W.  H.  Johnson,  the 
tailor  and  haberdasher,  a  parvenu  little  fellow  whose  English 
would  not  bear  analysis.  Bitter  as  it  was,  it  had  to  be.  Car- 
penters and  joiners  appeared,  and  the  premises  were  completely 
severed.  From  her  room  in  the  shadows  at  the  back  the  in- 
valid heard  the  hammering  and  sawing,  and  suffered.  W.  H. 
Johnson  came  out  with  a  spick-and-span  window,  and  had  his 
wife,  a  shrewd,  quiet  woman,  and  his  daughter,  a  handsome, 
loud  girl,  to  help  him  on  Friday  evenings.  Men  flocked  in  — 
even  women,  buying  their  husbands  a  sixpence-halfpenny  tie. 
They  could  have  bought  a  tie  for  four-three  from  James  Hough- 
ton.  But  no,  they  would  rather  give  sixpence-halfpenny  for 
W.  H.  Johnson's  fresh  but  rubbishy  stuff.  And  James,  who 
had  tried  to  rise  to  another  successful  sale,  saw  the  streams 
pass  into  the  other  doorway,  and  heard  the  heavy  feet  on  the 
hollow  boards  of  the  other  shop:  his  shop  no  more. 

After  this  cut  at  his  pride  and  integrity  he  lay  in  retirement 
for  a  while,  mystically  inclined.  Probably  he  would  have 
come  to  Swedenborg,  had  not  his  clipt  wings  spread  for  a  new 
flight.  He  hit  upon  the  brilliant  idea  of  working  up  his 
derelict  fabrics  into  ready-mades:  not  men's  clothes,  oh  no: 
women's,  or  rather,  ladies'.  Ladies'  Tailoring,  said  the  new 
announcement. 

James  Houghton  was  happy  once  more.  A  zig-zag  wooden 
stair-way  was  rigged  up  the  high  back  of  Manchester  House. 
In  the  great  lofts  sewing-machines  of  various  patterns  and 
movements  were  installed.  A  manageress  was  advertised  for, 
and  work-girls  were  hired.  So  a  new  phase  of  life  started.  At 
half -past  six  in  the  morning  there  was  a  clatter  of  feet  and  of 
girls'  excited  tongues  along  the  back-yard  and  up  the  wooden 
stairway  outside  the  back  wall.  The  poor  invalid  heard  every 


THE  DECLINE  OF  MANCHESTER  HOUSE         17 

clack  and  every  vibration.  She  could  never  get  over  her  ner- 
vous apprehension  of  an  invasion.  Every  morning  alike,  she 
felt  an  invasion  of  some  enemy  was  breaking  in  on  her.  And 
all  day  long  the  low,  steady  rumble  of  sewing-machines  over- 
head seemed  like  the  low  drumming  of  a  bombardment  upon 
her  weak  heart.  To  make  matters  worse,  James  Houghton 
decided  that  he  must  have  his  sewing-machines  driven  by  some 
extra-human  force.  He  installed  another  plant  of  machinery 
—  acetylene  or  some  such  contrivance  —  which  was  intended 
to  drive  all  the  little  machines  from  one  big  belt.  Hence  a 
further  throbbing  and  shaking  in  the  upper  regions,  truly  ter- 
rible to  endure.  But,  fortunately  or  unfortunately,  the  acety- 
lene plant  was  not  a  success.  Girls  got  their  thumbs  pierced, 
and  sewing  machines  absolutely  refused  to  stop  sewing,  once 
they  had  started,  and  absolutely  refused  to  start,  once  they 
had  stopped.  So  that  after  a  while,  one  loft  was  reserved  for 
disused  and  rusty,  but  expensive  engines. 

Dame  Fortune,  who  had  refused  to  be  taken  by  fine  fabrics 
and  fancy  trimmings,  was  just  as  reluctant  to  be  captured  by 
ready-mades.  Again  the  good  dame  was  thoroughly  lower 
middle-class.  James  Houghton  designed  "  robes."  Now 
Robes  were  the  mode.  Perhaps  it  was  Alexandra,  Princess  of 
Wales,  who  gave  glory  to  the  slim,  glove-fitting  Princess  Robe. 
Be  that  as  it  may,  James  Houghton  designed  robes.  His  work- 
girls,  a  race  even  more  callous  than  shop-girls,  proclaimed  the 
fact  that  James  tried-on  his  own  inventions  upon  his  own 
elegant  thin  person,  before  the  privacy  of  his  own  cheval  mir- 
ror. And  even  if  he  did,  why  not?  Miss  Frost,  hearing  this 
legend,  looked  sideways  at  the  enthusiast. 

Let  us  remark  in  time  that  Miss  Frost  had  already  ceased 
to  draw  any  maintenance  from  James  Houghon.  Far  from 
it,  she  herself  contributed  to  the  upkeep  of  the  domestic  hearth 
and  board.  She  had  fully  decided  never  to  leave  her  two 
charges.  She  knew  that  a  governess  was  an  impossible  item 
in  Manchester  House,  as  things  went.  And  so  she  trudged  the 
country,  giving  music  lessons  to  the  daughters  of  tradesmen  and 
of  colliers  who  boasted  pianofortes.  She  even  taught  heavy- 
handed  but  dauntless  colliers,  who  were  seized  with  a  passion 
to  "  play."  Miles  she  trudged,  on  her  round  from  village  to 
village:  a  white-haired  woman  with  a  long,  quick  stride,  a 
strong  figure,  and  a  quick,  handsome  smile  when  once  her  face 


18  THE  LOST  GIRL 

awoke  behind  her  gold-rimmed  glasses.  Like  many  short- 
sighted people,  she  had  a  certain  intent  look  of  one  who  goes 
her  own  way. 

The  miners  knew  her,  and  entertained  the  highest  respect 
and  admiration  for  her.  As  they  streamed  in  a  grimy  stream 
home  from  pit,  they  diverged  like  some  magic  dark  river  from 
off  the  pavement  into  the  horse-way,  to  give  her  room  as  she 
approached.  And  the  men  who  knew  her  well  enough  to 
salute  her,  by  calling  her  name  "  Miss  Frost !  "  giving  it  the 
proper  intonation  of  salute,  were  fussy  men  indeed.  "  She's 
a  lady  if  ever  there  was  one,"  they  said.  And  they  meant  it. 
Hearing  her  name,  poor  Miss  Frost  would  flash  a  smile  and  a 
nod  from  behind  her  spectacles,  but  whose  black  face  she 
smiled  to  she  never,  or  rarely  knew.  If  she  did  chance  to  get 
an  inkling,  then  gladly  she  called  in  reply  "  Mr.  Lamb,"  or 
"Mr.  Calladine."  In  her  way  she  was  a  proud  woman,  for 
she  was  regarded  with  cordial  respect,  touched  with  veneration, 
by  at  least  a  thousand  colliers,  and  by  perhaps  as  many  col- 
liers' wives.  That  is  something,  for  any  woman. 

Miss  Frost  charged  fifteen  shillings  for  thirteen  weeks'  les- 
sons, two  lessons  a  week.  And  at  that  she  was  considered 
rather  dear.  She  was  supposed  to  be  making  money.  What 
money  she  made  went  chiefly  to  support  the  Houghton  house- 
hold. In  the  meanwhile  she  drilled  Alvina  thoroughly  in 
theory  and  pianoforte  practice,  for  Alvina  was  naturally  musi- 
cal, and  besides  this  she  imparted  to  the  girl  the  elements  of  a 
young  lady's  education,  including  the  drawing  of  flowers  in 
water-colour,  and  the  translation  of  a  Lamartine  poem. 

Now  incredible  as  it  may  seem,  fate  threw  another  prop  to 
the  falling  house  of  Houghton,  in  the  person  of  the  manageress 
of  the  work-girls,  Miss  Pinnegar.  James  Houghton  com- 
plained of  Fortune,  yet  to  what  other  man  would  Fortune 
have  sent  two  such  women  as  Miss  Frost  and  Miss  Pinnegar, 
gratis?  Yet  there  they  were.  And  doubtful  if  James  was 
ever  grateful  for  their  presence. 

If  Miss  Frost  saved  him  from  heaven  knows  what  domestic 
debacle  and  horror,  Miss  Pinnegar  saved  him  from  the  work- 
house. Let  us  not  mince  matters.  For  a  dozen  years  Miss 
Frost  supported  the  heart-stricken,  nervous  invalid,  Clariss 
Houghton:  for  more  than  twenty  years  she  cherished,  tended 
and  protected  the  young  Alvina,  shielding  the  child  alike 
from  a  neurotic  mother  and  a  father  such  as  James.  For 


THE  DECLINE  OF  MANCHESTER  HOUSE         19 

nearly  twenty  years  she  saw  that  food  was  set  on  the  table, 
and  clean  sheets  were  spread  on  the  beds:  and  all  the 
time  remained  virtually  in  the  position  of  an  outsider,  with- 
out one  grain  of  established  authority. 

And  then  to  find  Miss  Pinnegar!  In  her  way,  Miss  Pin- 
negar  was  very  different  from  Miss  Frost.  She  was  a  rather 
short,  stout,  mouse-coloured,  creepy  kind  of  woman  with  a 
high  colour  in  her  cheeks,  and  dun,  close  hair  like  a  cap. 
It  was  evident  she  was  not  a  lady:  her  grammar  was  not  with- 
out reproach.  She  had  pale  grey  eyes,  and  a  padding  step,  and 
a  soft  voice,  and  almost  purplish  cheeks.  Mrs.  Houghton, 
Miss  Frost,  and  Alvina  did  not  like  her.  They  suffered  her 
unwillingly. 

But  from  the  first  she  had  a  curious  ascendancy  over  James 
Houghton.  One  would  have  expected  his  aesthetic  eye  to  be 
offended.  But  no  doubt  it  was  her  voice:  her  soft,  near,  sure 
voice,  which  seemed  almost  like  a  secret  touch  upon  her 
hearer.  Now  many  of  her  hearers  disliked  being  secretly 
touched,  as  it  were  beneath  their  clothing.  Miss  Frost  ab- 
horred it:  so  did  Mrs.  Houghton.  Miss  Frost's  voice  was  clear 
and  straight  as  a  bell-note,  open  as  the  day.  Yet  Alvina, 
though  in  loyalty  she  adhered  to  her  beloved  Miss  Frost,  did 
not  really  mind  the  quiet  suggestive  power  of  Miss  Pinnegar. 
For  Miss  Pinnegar  was  not  vulgarly  insinuating.  On  the 
contrary,  the  things  she  said  were  rather  clumsy  and  downright. 
It  was  only  that  she  seemed  to  weigh  what  she  said,  secretly, 
before  she  said  it,  and  then  she  approached  as  if  she  would 
slip  it  into  her  hearer's  consciousness  without  his  being  aware 
of  it.  She  seemed  to  slide  her  speeches  unnoticed  into  one's 
ears,  so  that  one  accepted  them  without  the  slightest  challenge. 
That  was  just  her  manner  of  approach.  In  her  own  way,  she 
was  as  loyal  and  unselfish  as  Miss  Frost.  There  are  such  poles 
of  opposition  between  honesties  and  loyalties. 

Miss  Pinnegar  had  the  second  class  of  girls  in  the  Sunday 
School,  and  she  took  second,  subservient  place  in  Manches- 
ter House.  By  force  of  nature,  Miss  Frost  took  first  place. 
Only  when  Miss  Pinnegar  spoke  to  Mr.  Houghton  —  nay,  the 
very  way  she  addressed  herself  to  him  —  "  What  do  you  think, 
Mr.  Houghton  ?  " —  then  there  seemed  to  be  assumed  an  im- 
mediacy of  correspondence  between  the  two,  and  an  unques- 
tioned priority  in  their  unison,  his  and  hers,  which  was  a  cruel 
thorn  in  Miss  Frost's  outspoken  breast.  This  sort  of  secret 


20  THE  LOST  GIRL 

intimacy  and  secret  exulting  in  having,  really.,  the  chief  power, 
was  most  repugnant  to  the  white-haired  woman.  Not  that  there 
was,  in  fact,  any  secrecy,  or  any  form  of  unwarranted  corre- 
spondence between  James  Houghton  and  Miss  Pinnegar.  Far 
from  it.  Each  of  them  would  have  found  any  suggestion  of 
such  a  possibility  repulsive  in  the  extreme.  It  was  simply 
an  implicit  correspondence  between  their  two  psyches,  an  im- 
mediacy of  understanding  which  preceded  all  expression,  tacit, 
wireless. 

Miss  Pinnegar  lived  in:  so  that  the  household  consisted  of 
the  invalid,  who  mostly  sat,  in  her  black  dress  with  a  white 
lace  collar  fastened  by  a  twisted  gold  brooch,  in  her  own  dim 
room,  doing  nothing,  nervous  and  heart-suffering;  then  James, 
and  the  thin  young  Alvina,  who  adhered  to  her  beloved  Miss 
Frost,  and  then  these  two  strange  women.  Miss  Pinnegar 
never  lifted  up  her  voice  in  household  affairs:  she  seemed,  by 
her  silence,  to  admit  her  own  inadequacy  in  culture  and  in- 
tellect, when  topics  of  interest  were  being  discussed,  only 
coming  out  now  and  then  with  defiant  platitudes  and  truisms 

—  for   almost  defiantly  she  took  the  commonplace,  vulgar- 
ian point  of  view;  yet  after  everything  she  would  turn  with 
her  quiet,  triumphant  assurance  to  James  Houghton,  and  start 
on   some  point   of   business,    soft,    assured,    ascendant.     The 
others  shut  their  ears. 

Now  Miss  Pinnegar  had  to  get  her  footing  slowly.  She 
had  to  let  James  run  the  gamut  of  his  creations.  Each  Friday 
night  new  wonders,  robes  and  ladies'  "  suits "  —  the  phrase 
was  very  new  —  garnished  the  window  of  Houghton's  shop. 
It  was  one  of  the  sights  of  the  place,  Houghton's  window  on 
Friday  night.  Young  or  old,  no  individual,  certainly  no 
female  left  Woodhouse  without  spending  an  excited  and 
usually  hilarious  ten  minutes  on  the  pavement  under  the  win- 
dow. Muffled  shrieks  of  young  damsels  who  had  just  got  their 
first  view,  guffaws  of  sympathetic  youths,  continued  giggling 
and  expostulation  and  "  Eh,  but  what  price  the  umbrella 
skirt,  my  girl !  "  and  "  You'd  like  to  marry  me  in  that,  my  boy 

—  what?  not  half!  "  —  or  else  "Eh,  now,  if  you'd  seen  me 
in  that  you'd  have  fallen  in  love  with  me  at  first  sight,  should- 
n't you?" — with  a  probable  answer  "I  should  have  fallen 
aver  myself  making  haste  to  get  away  "   —  loud  guffaws :  — 
all  this  was  the  regular  Friday  night's  entertainment  in  Wood- 
house.     James  Houghton's  shop  was   regarded   as  a  weekly 


THE  DECLINE  OF  MANCHESTER  HOUSE         21 

comic  issue.  His  pique  costumes  with  glass  buttons  and  sort 
of  steel-trimming  collars  and  cuffs  were  immortal. 

But  why,  once  more,  drag  it  out.  Miss  Pinnegar  served 
in  the  shop  on  Friday  nights.  She  stood  by  her  man.  Some- 
times when  the  shrieks  grew  loudest  she  came  to  the  shop 
door  and  looked  with  her  pale  grey  eyes  at  the  ridiculous  mob 
of  lasses  in  tam-o-shanters  and  youths  half  buried  in  caps. 
And  she  imposed  a  silence.  They  edged  away. 

Meanwhile  Miss  Pinnegar  pursued  the  sober  and  even  tenor 
of  her  own  way.  Whilst  James  lashed  out,  to  use  the  local 
phrase,  in  robes  and  "  suits,"  Miss  Pinnegar  steadily  ground 
away,  producing  strong,  indestructible  shirts  and  singlets  for 
the  colliers,  sound,  serviceable  aprons  for  the  colliers'  wives, 
good  print  dresses  for  servants,  and  so  on.  She  executed  no 
flights  of  fancy.  She  had  her  goods  made  to  suit  her  peo- 
ple. And  so,  underneath  the  foam  and  froth  of  James'  cre- 
ative adventure  flowed  a  slow  but  steady  stream  of  output 
and  income.  The  women  of  Woodhouse  came  at  last  to  depend 
on  Miss  Pinnegar.  Growing  lads  in  the  pit  reduce  their 
garments  to  shreds  with  amazing  expedition.  "  I'll  go  to 
Miss  Pinnegar  for  thy  shirts  this  time,  my  lad,"  said  the 
harassed  mothers,  "  and  see  if  they'll  stand  thee."  It  was 
almost  like  a  threat.  But  it  served  Manchester  House. 

James  bought  very  little  stock  in  these  days:  just  rem- 
nants and  pieces  for  his  immortal  robes.  It  was  Miss  Pin- 
negar who  saw  the  travellers  and  ordered  the  unions  and  cali- 
coes and  grey  flannel.  James  hovered  round  and  said  the  last 
word,  of  course.  But  what  was  his  last  word  but  an  echo 
of  Miss  Pinnegar 's  penultimate!  He  was  not  interested  in 
unions  and  twills. 

His  own  stock  remained  on  hand.  Time,  like  a  slow  whirl- 
pool churned  it  over  into  sight  and  out  of  sight,  like  a  mass 
of  dead  sea-weed  in  a  backwash.  There  was  a  regular  series 
of  sales  fortnightly.  The  display  of  "  creations "  fell  off. 
The  new  entertainment  was  the  Friday-night's  sale.  James 
would  attack  some  portion  of  his  stock,  make  a  wild  jumble 
of  it,  spend  a  delirious  Wednesday  and  Thursday  marking 
down,  and  then  open  on  Friday  afternoon.  In  the  evening 
there  was  a  crush.  A  good  moire  underskirt  for  one-and- 
eleven-three  was  not  to  be  neglected,  and  a  handsome  string- 
lace  collarette  for  six-three  would  iron  out  and  be  worth  at 
least  three-and-six.  That  was  how  it  went:  it  would  nearly 


22  THE  LOST  GIRL 

all  of  it  iron  out  into  something  really  nice,  poor  James' 
crumpled  stock.  His  fine,  semi-transparent  face  flushed  pink, 
his  eyes  flashed  as  he  took  in  the  sixpences  and  handed  back 
knots  of  tape  or  packets  of  pins  for  the  notorious  farthings. 
What  matter  if  the  farthing  change  had  originally  cost  him  a 
halfpenny!  His  shop  was  crowded  with  women  peeping  and 
pawing  and  turning  things  over  and  commenting  in  loud, 
unfeeling  tones.  For  there  were  still  many  comic  items. 
Once,  for  example,  he  suddenly  heaped  up  piles  of  hats, 
trimmed  and  untrimmed,  the  weirdest,  sauciest,  most  scream- 
ing shapes.  Woodhouse  enjoyed  itself  that  night. 

And  all  the  time,  in  her  quiet,  polite,  think-the-more  fash- 
ion Miss  Pinnegar  waited  on  the  people,  showing  them  consid- 
erable forbearance  and  just  a  tinge  of  contempt.  She  became, 
very  tired  those  evenings  —  her  hair  under  its  invisible  hair- 
net became  flatter,  her  cheeks  hung  down  purplish  and  mot- 
tled. But  while  James  stood  she  stood.  The  people  did  not 
like  her,  yet  she  influenced  them.  And  the  stock  slowly 
wilted,  withered.  Some  was  scrapped.  The  shop  seemed 
to  have  digested  some  of  its  indigestible  contents. 

James  accumulated  sixpences  in  a  miserly  fashion.  Luck- 
ily for  her  work-girls,  Miss  Pinnegar  took  her  own  orders,  and 
received  payments  for  her  own  productions.  Some  of  her 
regular  customers  paid  her  a  shilling  a  week  —  or  less.  But 
it  made  a  small,  steady  income.  She  reserved  her  own  modest 
share,  paid  the  expenses  of  her  department,  and  left  the  resi- 
due to  James. 

James  had  accumulated  sixpences,  and  made  a  little  space 
in  his  shop.  He  had  desisted  from  "  creations."  Time  now 
for  a  new  flight.  He  decided  it  was  better  to  be  a  manufac- 
turer than  a  tradesman.  His  shop,  already  only  half  its  orig- 
inal size,  was  again  too  big.  It  might  be  split  once  more. 
Rents  had  risen  in  Woodhouse.  Why  not  cut  off  another  shop 
from  his  premises? 

No  sooner  said  than  done.  In  came  the  architect,  with 
whom  he  had  played  many  a  game  of  chess.  Best,  said  the 
architect,  take  off  one  good-sized  shop,  rather  than  halve  the 
premises.  James  would  be  left  a  little  cramped,  a  little  tight, 
with  only  one-third  of  his  present  space.  But  as  we  age  we 
dwindle. 

More  hammering  and  alterations,  and  James  found  himself 
cooped  in  a  long,  long  narrow  shop,  very  dark  at  the  back,  with 


THE  DECLINE  OF  MANCHESTER  HOUSE        23 

a  high  oblong  window  and  a  door  that  came  in  at  a  pinched 
corner.  Next  door  to  him  was  a  cheerful  new  grocer  of  the 
cheap  and  florid  type.  The  new  grocer  whistled  "Just  Like 
the  Ivy,"  and  shouted  boisterously  to  his  shop-boy.  In  his  door- 
way, protruding  on  James'  sensitive  vision,  was  a  pyramid  of 
sixpence-halfpenny  tins  of  salmon,  red,  shiny  tins  with  pink 
halved  salmons  depicted,  and  another  yellow  pyramid  of  four- 
pence-halfpenny  tins  of  pineapple.  Bacon  dangled  in  pale 
rolls  almost  over  James'  doorway,  whilst  straw  and  paper, 
redolent  of  cheese,  lard,  and  stale  eggs  filtered  through  the 
threshold. 

This  was  coming  down  in  the  world,  with  a  vengeance. 
But  what  James  lost  downstairs  he  tried  to  recover  upstairs. 
Heaven  knows  what  he  would  have  done,  but  for  Miss  Pin- 
negar.  She  kept  her  own  work-rooms  against  him,  with  a 
soft,  heavy,  silent  tenacity  that  would  have  beaten  stronger 
men  than  James.  But  his  strength  lay  in  his  pliability.  He 
rummaged  in  the  empty  lofts,  and  among  the  discarded  ma- 
chinery. He  rigged  up  the  engines  afresh,  bought  two  new 
machines,  and  started  an  elastic  department,  making  elastic 
for  garters  and  for  hat-chins. 

He  was  immensely  proud  of  his  first  cards  of  elastic,  and 
saw  Dame  Fortune  this  time  fast  in  his  yielding  hands.  But, 
becoming  used  to  disillusionment,  he  almost  welcomed  it. 
Within  six  months  he  realized  that  every  inch  of  elastic  cost 
him  exactly  sixty  per  cent,  more  than  he  could  sell  it  for,  and 
so  he  scrapped  his  new  department.  Luckily,  he  sold  one 
machine  and  even  gained  two  pounds  on  it. 

After  this,  he  made  one  last  effort.  This  was  hosiery  web- 
bing, which  could  be  cut  up  and  made  into  as-yet-unheard-of 
garments.  Miss  Pinnegar  kept  her  thumb  on  this  enterprise, 
so  that  it  was  not  much  more  than  abortive.  And  then  James 
left  her  alone. 

Meanwhile  the  shop  slowly  churned  its  oddments.  Every 
Thursday  afternoon  James  sorted  out  tangles  of  bits  and  bobs, 
antique  garments  and  occasional  finds.  With  these  he  trimmed 
his  window,  so  that  it  looked  like  a  historical  museum,  rather 
soiled  and  scrappy.  Indoors  he  made  baskets  of  assortments: 
threepenny,  sixpenny,  ninepenny  and  shilling  baskets, 
rather  like  a  bran  pie  in  which  everything  was  a  plum.  And 
then,  on  Friday  evening,  thin  and  alert  he  hovered  behind  the 
counter,  his  coat  shabbily  buttoned  over  his  narrow  chest,  his 


24  THE  LOST  GIRL 

face  agitated.  He  had  shaved  his  side-whiskers,  so  that  they 
only  grew  becomingly  as  low  as  his  ears.  His  rather  large, 
grey  moustache  was  brushed  off  his  mouth.  His  hair,  gone  very 
thin,  was  brushed  frail  and  floating  over  his  baldness.  But 
still  a  gentleman,  still  courteous,  with  a  charming  voice  he 
suggested  the  possibilities  of  a  pad  of  green  parrots'  tail- 
feathers,  or  of  a  few  yards  of  pink-pearl  trimming  or  of  old 
chenille  fringe.  The  women  would  pinch  the  thick,  exquisite 
old  chenille  fringe,  delicate  and  faded,  curious  to  feel  its  soft- 
ness. But  they  wouldn't  give  threepence  for  it.  Tapes,  ribbons, 
braids,  buttons,  feathers,  jabots,  bussels,  appliques,  fringes, 
jet-trimmings,  bugle-trimmings,  bundles  of  old  coloured  ma- 
chine-lace, many  bundles  of  strange  cord,  in  all  colours,  for  old- 
fashioned  braid-patterning,  ribbons  with  H.M.S.  Birkenhead, 
for  boys'  sailor  caps  —  everything  that  nobody  wanted,  did 
the  women  turn  over  and  over,  till  they  chanced  on  a  find.  And 
James'  quick  eyes  watched  the  slow  surge  of  his  flotsam,  as 
the  pot  boiled  but  did  not  boil  away.  Wonderful  that  he  did 
not  think  of  the  days  when  these  bits  and  bobs  were  new 
treasures.  But  he  did  not. 

And  at  his  side  Miss  Pinnegar  quietly  took  orders  for  shirts, 
discussed  and  agreed,  made  measurements  and  received  in- 
stalments. 

The  shop  was  now  only  opened  on  Friday  afternoons  and 
evenings,  so  every  day,  twice  a  day,  James  was  seen  dithering 
bareheaded  and  hastily  down  the  street,  as  if  pressed  by  fate, 
to  the  Conservative  Club,  and  twice  a  day  he  was  seen  as  has- 
tily returning,  to  his  meals.  He  was  becoming  an  old  man: 
his  daughter  was  a  young  woman:  but  in  his  own  mind  he  was 
just  the  same,  and  his  daughter  was  a  little  child,  his  wife  a 
young  invalid  whom  he  must  charm  by  some  few  delicate  at- 
tentions —  such  as  the  peeled  apple. 

At  the  club  he  got  into  more  mischief.  He  met  men  who 
wanted  to  extend  a  brickfield  down  by  the  railway.  The 
brickfield  was  called  Klondyke.  James  had  now  a  new  direc- 
tion to  run  in:  down  hill  towards  Bagthorpe,  to  Klondyke. 
Big  penny-daisies  grew  in  tufts  on  the  brink  of  the  yellow  clay 
at  Klondyke,  yellow  eggs-and-bacon  spread  their  midsummer 
mats  of  flower.  James  came  home  with  clay  smeared  all  over 
him,  discoursing  brilliantly  on  grit  and  paste  and  presses  and 
kilns  and  stamps.  He  carried  home  a  rough  and  pinkish 


THE  DECLINE  OF  MANCHESTER  HOUSE         25 

brick,  and  gloated  over  it.  It  was  a  hard  brick,  it  was  a  non- 
porous  brick.  It  was  an  ugly  brick,  painfully  heavy  and 
parched-looking. 

This  time  he  was  sure:  Dame  Fortune  would  rise  like  Per- 
sephone out  of  the  earth.  He  was  all  the  more  sure,  because 
other  men  of  the  town  were  in  with  him  at  this  venture:  sound, 
moneyed  grocers  and  plumbers.  They  were  all  going  to  be- 
come rich. 

Klondyke  lasted  a  year  and  a  half,  and  was  not  so  bad, 
for  in  the  end,  all  things  considered,  James  had  lost  not  more 
than  five  per  cent,  of  his  money.  In  fact,  all  things  considered, 
he  was  about  square.  And  yet  he  felt  Klondyke  as  the  great- 
est blow  of  all.  Miss  Pinnegar  would  have  aided  and  abetted 
him  in  another  scheme,  if  it  would  but  have  cheered  him. 
Even  Miss  Frost  was  nice  with  him.  But  to  no  purpose.  In 
the  year  after  Klondyke  he  became  an  old  man,  he  seemed  to 
have  lost  all  his  feathers,  he  acquired  a  plucked,  tottering  look. 

Yet  he  roused  up,  after  a  coal-strike.  Throttle-Ha'penny 
put  new  life  into  him.  During  a  coal-strike  the  miners  them- 
selves began  digging  in  the  fields,  just  near  the  houses,  for  the 
surface  coal.  They  found  a  plentiful  seam  of  drossy,  yellow- 
ish coal  behind  the  Methodist  New  Connection  Chapel.  The 
seam  was  opened  in  the  side  of  a  bank,  and  approached  by  a 
footrill,  a  sloping  shaft  down  which  the  men  walked.  When 
the  strike  was  over,  two  or  three  miners  still  remained  work- 
ing the  soft,  drossy  coal,  which  they  sold  for  eight-and-sixpence 
a  ton  —  or  sixpence  a  hundredweight.  But  a  mining  popula- 
tion scorned  such  dirt,  as  they  called  it. 

James  Houghton,  however,  was  seized  with  a  desire  to 
work  the  Connection  Meadow  seam,  as  he  called  it.  He 

fathered  two  miner  partners  —  he  trotted  endlessly  up  to  the 
eld,  he  talked,  as  he  had  never  talked  before,  with  inumer- 
able  colliers.     Everybody  he  met  he  stopped,  to  talk  Connec- 
tion Meadow. 

And  so  at  last  he  sank  a  shaft,  sixty  feet  deep,  rigged  up  a 
corrugated-iron  engine-house  with  a  winding-engine,  and  low- 
ered his  men  one  at  a  time  down  the  shaft,  in  a  big  bucket. 
The  whole  affair  was  ricketty,  amateurish,  and  twopenny.  The 
name  Connection  Meadow  was  forgotten  within  three  months. 
Everybody  knew  the  place  as  Throttle-Ha'penny.  "  What !  " 
said  a  collier  to  his  wife:  "have  we  got  no  coal?  You'd  bet- 


26  THE  LOST  GIRL 

ter  get  a  bit  from  Throttle-Ha'penny."  "Nay,"  replied  the 
wife,  "  I'm  sure  I  shan't.  I'm  sure  I  shan't  burn  that  muck, 
and  smother  myself  with  white  ash." 

It  was  in  the  early  Throttle-Ha'penny  days  that  Mrs.  Hough- 
ton  died.  James  Houghton  cried,  and  put  a  black  band  on 
his  Sunday  silk  hat.  But  he  was  too  feverishly  busy  at 
Throttle-Ha'penny,  selling  his  hundredweights  of  ash-pit  fod- 
der, as  the  natives  called  it,  to  realize  anything  else. 

He  had  three  men  and  two  boys  working  his  pit,  besides  a 
superannuated  old  man  driving  the  winding  engine.  And  in 
spite  of  all  jeering,  he  flourished.  Shabby  old  coal-carts 
rambled  up  behind  the  New  Connection,  and  filled  from  the 
pit-bank.  The  coal  improved  a  little  in  quality:  it  was  cheap 
and  it  was  handy.  James  could  sell  at  last  fifty  or  sixty  tons 
a  week:  for  the  stuff  was  easy  getting.  And  now  at  last  he 
was  actually  handling  money.  He  saw  millions  ahead. 

This  went  on  for  more  than  a  year.  A  year  after  the  death 
of  Mrs.  Houghton,  Miss  Frost  became  ill  and  suddenly  died. 
Again  James  Houghton  cried  and  trembled.  But  it  was 
Throttle-Ha'penny  that  made  him  tremble.  He  trembled  in 
all  his  limbs,  at  the  touch  of  success.  He  saw  himself  mak- 
ing noble  provision  for  his  only  daughter. 

But  alas  —  it  is  wearying  to  repeat  the  same  thing  over  and 
over.  First  the  Board  of  Trade  began  to  make  difficulties. 
Then  there  was  a  fault  in  the  seam.  Then  the  roof  of  Throttle- 
Ha'penny  was  so  loose  and  soft,  James  could  not  afford  timber 
to  hold  it  up.  In  short,  when  his  daughter  Alvina  was  about 
twenty-seven  years  old,  Throttle-Ha'penny  closed  down.  There 
was  a  sale  of  poor  machinery,  and  James  Houghton  came  home 
to  the  dark,  gloomy  house  —  to  Miss  Pinnegar  and  Alvina. 

It  was  a  pinched,  dreary  house.  James  seemed  down  for 
the  last  time.  But  Miss  Pinnegar  persuaded  him  to  take  the 
shop  again  on  Friday  evening.  For  the  rest,  faded  and  peaked, 
he  hurried  shadowily  down  to  the  club. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  RISE   OF  ALVINA   HOUGHTON 

THE  heroine  of  this  story  is  Alvina  Houghton.  If  we  leave 
her  out  of  the  first  chapter  of  her  own  story  it  is  because, 
during  the  first  twenty-five  years  of  her  life,  she  really  was 
left  out  of  count,  or  so  overshadowed  as  to  be  negligible. 
She  and  her  mother  were  the  phantom  passengers  in  the  ship 
of  James  Houghton's  fortunes. 

In  Manchester  House,  every  voice  lowered  its  tone.  And  so 
from  the  first  Alvina  spoke  with  a  quiet,  refined,  almost  con- 
vent voice.  She  was  a  thin  child  with  delicate  limbs  and  face, 
and  wide,  grey-blue,  ironic  eyes.  Even  as  a  small  girl  she 
had  that  odd  ironic  tilt  of  the  eyelids  which  gave  her  a 
look  as  if  she  were  hanging  back  in  mockery.  If  she  were,  she 
was  quite  unaware  of  it,  for  under  Miss  Frost's  care  she  re- 
ceived no  education  in  irony  or  mockery.  Miss  Frost  was 
straight-forward,  good-humoured,  and  a  little  earnest.  Con- 
sequently Alvina,  or  Vina  as  she  was  called,  understood  only 
the  explicit  mode  of  good-humoured  straight-forwardness. 

It  was  doubtful  which  shadow  was  greater  over  the  child: 
that  of  Manchester  House,  gloomy  and  a  little  sinister,  or 
that  of  Miss  Frost,  benevolent  and  protective.  Sufficient  that 
the  girl  herself  worshipped  Miss  Frost:  or  believed  she  did. 

Alvina  never  went  to  school.  She  had  her  lessons  from 
her  beloved  governess,  she  worked  at  the  piano,  she  took  her 
walks,  and  for  social  life  she  went  to  the  Congregational 
Chapel,  and  to  the  functions  connected  with  the  chapel.  While 
she  was  little,  she  went  to  Sunday  School  twice  and  to  Chapel 
once  on  Sundays.  Then  occasionally  there  was  a  magic  lan- 
tern or  a  penny  reading,  to  which  Miss  Frost  accompanied  her. 
As  she  grew  older  she  entered  the  choir  at  chapel,  she  attended 
Christian  Endeavour  and  P.  S.  A.,  and  the  Literary  Society  on 
Monday  evenings.  Chapel  provided  her  with  a  whole  social 
activity,  in  the  course  of  which  she  met  certain  groups  of 
people,  made  certain  friends,  found  opportunity  for  strolls 

27 


28  THE  LOST  GIRL 

into  the  country  and  jaunts  to  the  local  entertainments.  Over 
and  above  this,  every  Thursday  evening  she  went  to  the 
subscription  library  to  change  the  week's  supply  of  books, 
and  there  again  she  met  friends  and  acquaintances.  It  is  hard 
to  overestimate  the  value  of  church  or  chapel  —  but  particu- 
larly chapel  —  as  a  social  institution,  in  places  like  Wood- 
house.  The  Congregational  ••  Chapel  provided  Alvina  with  a 
whole  outer  life,  lacking  which  she  would  have  been  poor 
indeed.  She  was  not  particularly  religious  by  inclination. 
Perhaps  her  father's  beautiful  prayers  put  her  off.  So  she 
neither  questioned  nor  accepted,  but  just  let  be. 

She  grew  up  a  slim  girl,  rather  distinguished  in  appearance, 
with  a  slender  face,  a  fine,  slightly  arched  nose,  and  beauti- 
ful grey-blue  eyes  over  which  the  lids  tilted  with  a  very  odd, 
sardonic  tilt.  The  sardonic  quality  was,  however,  quite  in 
abeyance.  She  was  ladylike,  not  vehement  at  all.  In  the 
street  her  walk  had  a  delicate,  lingering  motion,  her  face  looked 
still.  In  conversation  she  had  rather  a  quick,  hurried  manner, 
with  intervals  of  well-bred  repose  and  attention.  Her  voice 
was  like  her  father's,  flexible  and  curiously  attractive. 

Sometimes,  however,  she  would  have  fits  of  boisterous  hilar- 
ity, not  quite  natural,  with  a  strange  note  half  pathetic,  half 
jeering.  Her  father  tended  to  a  supercilious,  sneering  tone. 
In  Vina  it  came  out  in  mad  bursts  of  hilarious  jeering.  This 
made  Miss  Frost  uneasy.  She  would  watch  the  girl's  strange 
face,  that  could  take  on  a  gargoyle  look.  She  would  see  the 
eyes  rolling  strangely  under  sardonic  eye-lids,  and  then  Miss 
Frost  would  feel  that  never,  never  had  she  known  anything  so 
utterly  alien  and  incomprehensible  and  unsympathetic  as  her 
own  beloved  Vina.  For  twenty  years  the  strong,  protective 
governess  reared  and  tended  her  lamb,  her  dove,  only  to  see 
the  lamb  open  a  wolf's  mouth,  to  hear  the  dove  utter  the  wild 
cackle  of  a  daw  or  a  magpie,  a  strange  sound  of  derision.  At 
such  times  Miss  Frost's  heart  went  cold  within  her.  She  dared 
not  realize.  And  she  chid  and  checked  her  ward,  restored  her 
to  the  usual  impulsive,  affectionate  demureness.  Then  she 
dismissed  the  whole  matter.  It  was  just  an  accidental  aber- 
ration on  the  girl's  part  from  her  own  true  nature.  Miss  Frost 
taught  Alvina  thoroughly  the  qualities  of  her  own  true  nature, 
and  Alvina  believed  what  she  was  taught.  She  remained  for 
twenty  years  the  demure,  refined  creature  of  her  governess'  de- 
sire. But  there  was  an  odd,  derisive  look  at  the  back  of  her 


THE  RISE  OF  ALVINA  HOUGHTON  29 

eyes,  a  look  of  old  knowledge  and  deliberate  derision.  She 
herself  was  unconscious  of  it.  But  it  was  there.  And  this 
it  was,  perhaps,  that  scared  away  the  young  men. 

Alvina  reached  the  age  of  twenty-three,  and  it  looked  as 
if  she  were  destined  to  join  the  ranks  of  the  old  maids,  so 
many  of  whom  found  cold  comfort  in  the  Chapel.  For  she 
had  no  suitors.  True  there  were  extraordinarily  few  young 
men  of  her  class  —  for  whatever  her  condition,  she  had  cer- 
tain breeding  and  inherent  culture  —  in  Woodhouse.  The 
young  men  of  the  same  social  standing  as  herself  were  in 
some  curious  way  outsiders  to  her.  Knowing  nothing,  yet  her 
ancient  sapience  went  deep,  deeper  than  Woodhouse  could 
fathom.  The  young  men  did  not  like  her  for  it.  They  did 
not  like  the  tilt  of  her  eyelids. 

Miss  Frost,  with  anxious  foreseeing,  persuaded  the  girl  to 
take  over  some  pupils,  to  teach  them  the  piano.  The  work  was 
distasteful  to  Alvina.  She  was  not  a  good  teacher.  She  per- 
severed in  an  off-hand  way,  somewhat  indifferent,  albeit  duti- 
ful. 

When  she  was  twenty-three  years  old,  Alvina  met  a  man 
called  Graham.  He  was  an  Australian,  who  had  been  in 
Edinburgh  taking  his  medical  degree.  Before  going  back  to 
Australia,  he  came  to  spend  some  months  practising  with  old 
Dr.  Fordham  in  Woodhouse  —  Dr.  Fordham  being  in  some  way 
connected  with  his  mother. 

Alexander  Graham  called  to  see  Mrs.  Houghton.  Mrs. 
Houghton  did  not  like  him.  She  said  he  was  creepy.  He 
was  a  man  of  medium  height,  dark  in  colouring,  with  very 
dark  eyes,  and  a  body  which  seemed  to  move  inside  his  cloth- 
ing. He  was  amiable  and  polite,  laughed  often,  showing  his 
teeth.  It  was  his  teeth  which  Miss  Frost  could  not  stand.  She 
seemed  to  see  a  strong  mouthful  of  cruel,  compact  teeth. 
She  declared  he  had  dark  blood  in  his  veins,  that  he  was  not 
a  man  to  be  trusted,  and  that  never,  never  would  he  make  any 
woman's  life  happy. 

Yet  in  spite  of  all,  Alvina  was  attracted  by  him.  The  two 
would  stay  together  in  the  parlour,  laughing  and  talking  by 
the  hour.  What  they  could  find  to  talk  about  was  a  mystery. 
Yet  there  they  were,  laughing  and  chatting,  with  a  running 
insinuating  sound  through  it  all  which  made  Miss  Frost  pace 
up  and  down  unable  to  bear  herself. 

The  man  was  always  running  in  when  Miss  Frost  was  out. 


30  THE  LOST  GIRL 

He  contrived  to  meet  Alvina  in  the  evening,  to  take  a  walk 
with  her.  He  went  a  long  walk  with  her  one  night,  and 
wanted  to  make  love  to  her.  But  her  upbringing  was  too 
strong  for  her. 

"  Oh  no,"  she  said.     "  We  are  only  friends." 

He  knew  her  upbringing  was  too  strong  for  him  also. 

"We're  more  than  friends,"  he  said.  "We're  more  than 
friends." 

"  I  don't  think  so,"  she  said. 

"  Yes  we  are,"  he  insisted,  trying  to  put  his  arm  round  her 
waist. 

"  Oh,  don't!  "  she  cried.     "  Let  us  go  home." 

And  then  he  burst  out  with  wild  and  thick  protestations  of 
love,  which  thrilled  her  and  repelled  her  slightly. 

"Anyhow  I  must  tell  Miss  Frost,"  she  said. 

"Yes,  yes,"  he  answered.  "Yes,  yes.  Let  us  be  engaged 
at  once." 

As  they  passed  under  the  lamps  he  saw  her  face  lifted,  the 
eyes  shining,  the  delicate  nostrils  dilated,  as  of  one  who  scents 
battle  and  laughs  to  herself.  She  seemed  to  laugh  with  a 
certain  proud,  sinister  recklessness.  His  hands  trembled  with 
desire. 

So  they  were  engaged.  He  bought  her  a  ring,  an  emerald 
set  in  tiny  diamonds.  Miss  Frost  looked  grave  and  silent, 
but  would  not  openly  deny  her  approval. 

"You  like  him,  don't  you?  You  don't  dislike  him?  "  Al- 
vina insisted. 

"I  don't  dislike  him,"  replied  Miss  Frost.  "How  can  I? 
He  is  a  perfect  stranger  to  me." 

And  with  this  Alvina  subtly  contented  herself.  Her  father 
treated  the  young  man  with  suave  attention,  punctuated  by 
fits  of  jerky  hostility  and  jealousy.  Her  mother  merely  sighed, 
and  took  sal  volatile. 

To  tell  the  truth,  Alvina  herself  was  a  little  repelled  by  the 
man's  love-making.  She  found  him  fascinating,  but  a  trifle 
repulsive.  And  she  was  not  sure  whether  she  hated  the  re- 
pulsive element,  or  whether  she  rather  gloried  in  it.  She 
kept  her  look  of  arch,  half-derisive  recklessness,  which  was 
so  unbearably  painful  to  Miss  Frost,  and  so  exciting  to  the 
dark  little  man.  It  was  a  strange  look  in  a  refined,  really 
virgin  girl  —  oddly  sinister.  And  her  voice  had  a  curious 
bronze-like  resonance  that  acted  straight  on  the  nerves  of  her 


THE  RISE  OF  ALVINA  HOUGHTON  31 

hearers:  unpleasantly  on  most  English  nerves,  but  like  fire  on 
the  different  susceptibilities  of  the  young  man  —  the  darkie, 
as  people  called  him. 

But  after  all,  he  had  only  six  weeks  in  England,  before  sail- 
ing to  Sydney.  He  suggested  that  he  and  Alvina  should  marry 
before  he  sailed.  Miss  Frost  would  not  hear  of  it.  He  must 
see  his  people  first,  she  said. 

So  the  time  passed,  and  he  sailed.  Alvina  missed  him, 
missed  the  extreme  excitement  of  him  rather  than  the  human 
being  he  was.  Miss  Frost  set  to  work  to  regain  her  influence 
over  her  ward,  to  remove  that  arch,  reckless,  almost  lewd  look 
from  the  girl's  face.  It  was  a  question  of  heart  against  sensu- 
ality. Miss  Frost  tried  and  tried  to  wake  again  the  girl's  lov- 
ing heart  —  which  loving  heart  was  certainly  not  occupied  by 
that  man.  It  was  a  hard  task,  an  anxious,  bitter  task  Miss 
Frost  had  set  herself. 

But  at  last  she  succeeded.  Alvina  seemed  to  thaw.  The 
hard  shining  of  her  eyes  softened  again  to  a  sort  of  demure- 
ness  and  tenderness.  The  influence  of  the  man  was  revoked, 
the  girl  was  left  uninhabited,  empty  and  uneasy. 

She  was  due  to  follow  her  Alexander  in  three  months'  time, 
to  Sydney.  Came  letters  from  him,  en  route  —  and  then  a 
cablegram  from  Australia.  He  had  arrived.  Alvina  should 
have  been  preparing  her  trousseau,  to  follow.  But  owing 
to  her  change  of  heart,  she  lingered  indecisive. 

"Do  you  love  him,  dear?  "  said  Miss  Frost  with  emphasis, 
knitting  her  thick,  passionate,  earnest  eyebrows.  "  Do  you 
love  him  sufficiently?  That's  the  point." 

The  way  Miss  Frost  put  the  question  implied  that  Alvina 
did  not  and  could  not  love  him  —  because  Miss  Frost  could  not. 
Alvina  lifted  her  large,  blue  eyes,  confused,  half-tender  to- 
wards her  governess,  half  shining  with  unconscious  derision. 

"  I  don't  really  know,"  she  said,  laughing  hurriedly.  "  I 
don't  really." 

Miss  Frost  scrutinized  her,  and  replied  with  a  meaningful: 

«  Well  —  !  " 

To  Miss  Frost  it  was  clear  as  daylight.  To  Alvina  not  so. 
In  her  periods  of  lucidity,  when  she  saw  as  clear  as  daylight 
also,  she  certainly  did  not  love  the  little  man.  She  felt  him 
a  terrible  outsider,  an  inferior,  to  tell  the  truth.  She  won- 
dered how  he  could  have  the  slightest  attraction  for  her.  In 
fact  she  could  not  understand  it  at  all.  She  was  as  free  of 


32  THE  LOST  GIRL 

him  as  if  he  had  never  existed.  The  square  green  emerald  on 
her  ringer  was  almost  nonsensical.  She  was  quite,  quite  sure 
of  herself. 

And  then,  most  irritating,  a  complete  volte  face  in  her  feel- 
ings. The  clear-as-daylight  mood  disappeared  as  daylight  is 
bound  to  disappear.  She  found  herself  in  a  night  where  the 
little  man  loomed  large,  terribly  large,  potent  and  magical, 
while  Miss  Frost  had  dwindled  to  nothingness.  At  such  times 
she  wished  with  all  her  force  that  she  could  travel  like  a  cable- 
gram to  Australia.  She  felt  it  was  the  only  way.  She  felt  the 
dark,  passionate  receptivity  of  Alexander  overwhelmed  her,  en- 
veloped her  even  from  the  Antipodes.  She  felt  herself  going 
distracted  —  she  felt  she  was  going  out  of  her  mind.  For  she 
could  not  act. 

Her  mother  and  Miss  Frost  were  fixed  in  one  line.  Her 
father  said: 

"Well,  of  course,  you'll  do  as  you  think  best.  There's  a 
great  risk  in  going  so  far  —  a  great  risk.  You  would  be  en- 
tirely unprotected." 

I  don't  mind  being  unprotected,"  said  Alvina  perversely. 

"Because  you  don't  understand  what  it  means,"  said  her 
father. 

He  looked  at  her  quickly.  Perhaps  he  understood  her  better 
than  the  others. 

"  Personally,"  said  Miss  Pinnegar,  speaking  of  Alexander, 
"  I  don't  care  for  him.  But  every  one  has  their  own  taste." 

Alvina  felt  she  was  being  overborne,  and  that  she  was  letting 
herself  be  overborne.  She  was  half  relieved.  She  seemed 
to  nestle  into  the  well-known  surety  of  Woodhouse.  The  other 
unknown  had  frightened  her. 

Miss  Frost  now  took  a  definite  line. 

"  I  feel  you  don't  love  him,  dear.  I'm  almost  sure  you 
don't.  So  now  you  have  to  choose.  Your  mother  dreads  your 
going  —  she  dreads  it.  I  am  certain  you  would  never  see 
her  again.  She  says  she  can't  bear  it  —  she  can't  bear  the 
thought  of  you  out  there  with  Alexander.  It  makes  her  shud- 
der. She  suffers  dreadfully,  you  know.  So  you  will  have  to 
choose,  dear.  You  will  have  to  choose  for  the  best." 

Alvina  was  made  stubborn  by  pressure.  She  herself  had 
come  fully  to  believe  that  she  did  not  love  him.  She  was 
quite  sure  she  did  not  love  him.  But  out  of  a  certain  per- 
versity, she  wanted  to  go. 


THE  RISE  OF  ALVINA  HOUGHTON  33 

Came  his  letter  from  Sydney,  and  one  from  his  parents  to 
her  and  one  to  her  parents.  All  seemed  straightforward  — 
not  very  cordial,  but  sufficiently.  Over  Alexander's  letter  Miss 
Frost  shed  bitter  tears.  To  her  it  seemed  so  shallow  and 
heartless,  with  terms  of  endearment  stuck  in  like  exclamation 
marks.  He  semed  to  have  no  thought,  no  feeling  for  the  girl 
herself.  All  he  wanted  was  to  hurry  her  out  there.  He  did 
not  even  mention  the  grief  of  her  parting  from  her  English  par- 
ents and  friends:  not  a  word.  Just  a  rush  to  get  her  out 
there,  winding  up  with  "And  now,  dear,  I  shall  not  be  my- 
self till  I  see  you  here  in  Sydney  —  Your  ever-loving  Alex- 
ander." A  selfish,  sensual  creature,  who  would  forget  the 
dear  little  Vina  in  three  months,  if  she  did  not  turn  up,  and 
who  would  neglect  her  in  six  months,  if  she  did.  Probably 
Miss  Frost  was  right. 

Alvina  knew  the  tears  she  was  costing  all  round.  She 
went  upstairs  and  looked  at  his  photograph  —  his  dark  and 
impertinent  muzzle.  Who  was  he,  after  all?  She  did  not 
know  him.  With  cold  eyes  she  looked  at  him,  and  found  him 
repugnant. 

She  went  across  to  her  governess's  room,  and  found  Miss 
Frost  in  a  strange  mood  of  trepidation. 

"Don't  trust  me,  dear,  don't  trust  what  I  say,"  poor  Miss 
Frost  ejaculated  hurriedly,  even  wildly.  "Don't  notice  what 
I  have  said.  Act  for  yourself,  dear.  Act  for  yourself  entirely. 
I  am  sure  I  am  wrong  in  trying  to  influence  you.  I  know  I 
am  wrong.  It  is  wrong  and  foolish  of  me.  Act  just  for  your- 
self, dear  —  the  rest  doesn't  matter.  The  rest  doesn't  matter. 
Don't  take  any  notice  of  what  I  have  said.  I  know  I  am 
wrong." 

For  the  first  time  in  her  life  Alvina  saw  her  beloved  gov- 
erness flustered,  the  beautiful  white  hair  looking  a  little  drag- 
gled, the  grey,  near-sighted  eyes,  so  deep  and  kind  behind  the 
gold-rimmed  glasses,  now  distracted  and  scared.  Alvina  im- 
mediately burst  into  tears  and  flung  herself  into  the  arms  of 
Miss  Frost.  Miss  Frost  also  cried  as  if  her  heart  would 
break,  catching  her  indrawn  breath  with  a  strange  sound  of 
anguish,  forlornness,  the  terrible  crying  of  a  woman  with  a 
loving  heart,  whose  heart  has  never  been  able  to  relax.  Al- 
vina was  hushed.  In  a  second,  she  became  the  elder  of  the 
two.  The  terrible  poignancy  of  the  woman  of  fifty-two,  who 
now  at  last  had  broken  down,  silenced  the  girl  of  twenty- 


34  THE  LOST  GIRL 

three,  and  roused  all  her  passionate  tenderness.  The  terrible 
sound  of  "  Never  now,  never  now  —  it  is  too  late,"  which 
seemed  to  ring  in  the  curious,  indrawn  cries  of  the  elder 
woman,  filled  the  girl  with  a  deep  wisdom.  She  knew  the 
same  would  ring  in  her  mother's  dying  cry.  Married  or  un- 
married, it  was  the  same  —  the  same  anguish,  realized  in  all 
its  pain  after  the  age  of  fifty  —  the  loss  in  never  having  been 
able  to  relax,  to  submit. 

Alvina  felt  very  strong  and  rich  in  the  fact  of  her  youth. 
For  her  it  was  not  too  late.  For  Miss  Frost  it  was  for  ever 
too  late. 

"  I  don't  want  to  go,  dear,"  said  Alvina  to  the  elder  woman. 
"  I  know  I  don't  care  for  him.  He  is  nothing  to  me." 

Miss  Frost  became  gradually  silent,  and  turned  aside  her 
face.  After  this  there  was  a  hush  in  the  house.  Alvina  an- 
nounced her  intention  of  breaking  off  her  engagement.  Her 
mother  kissed  her,  and  cried,  and  said,  with  the  selfishness 
of  an  invalid: 

"  I  couldn't  have  parted  with  you,  I  couldn't."  Whilst  the 
father  said: 

"  I  think  you  are  wise,  Vina.     I  have  thought  a  lot  about  it." 

So  Alvina  packed  up  his  ring  and  his  letters  and  little  pres- 
ents, and  posted  them  over  the  seas.  She  was  relieved,  really : 
as  if  she  had  escaped  some  very  trying  ordeal.  For  some  days 
she  went  about  happily,  in  pure  relief.  She  loved  everybody. 
She  was  charming  and  sunny  and  gentle  with  everybody,  par- 
ticularly with  Miss  Frost,  whom  she  loved  with  a  deep,  tender, 
rather  sore  love.  Poor  Miss  Frost  seemed  to  have  lost  a  part 
of  her  confidence,  to  have  taken  on  a  new  wistfulness,  a  new 
silence  and  remoteness.  It  was  as  if  she  found  her  busy  con- 
tact with  life  a  strain  now.  Perhaps  she  was  getting  old. 
Perhaps  her  proud  heart  had  given  way. 

Alvina  had  kept  a  little  photograph  of  the  man.  She 
would  often  go  and  look  at  it.  Love?  — no,  it  was  not  love! 
It  was  something  more  primitive  still.  It  was  curiosity,  deep, 
radical,  burning  curiosity.  How  she  looked  and  looked  at 
his  dark,  impertinent-seeming  face.  A  flicker  of  derision 
came  into  her  eyes.  Yet  still  she  looked. 

In  the  same  manner  she  would  look  into  the  faces  of  the 
young  men  of  Woodhouse.  But  she  never  found  there  what 
she  found  in  her  photograph.  They  all  seemed  like  blank 


THE  RISE  OF  ALVINA  HOUGHTON  35 

sheets  of  paper  in  comparison.  There  was  a  curious  pale 
surface-look  in  the  faces  of  the  young  men  of  Woodhouse: 
or,  if  there  was  some  underneath  suggestive  power,  it  was  a 
little  abject  or  humiliating,  inferior,  common.  They  were 
all  either  blank  or  common. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE    MATERNITY   NURSE 

OF  course  Alvina  made  everybody  pay  for  her  mood  of  sub- 
mission and  sweetness.  In  a  month's  time  she  was  quite  in- 
tolerable. 

"  I  can't  stay  here  all  my  life,"  she  declared,  stretching  her 
eyes  in  a  way  that  irritated  the  other  inmates  of  Manchester 
House  extremely.  "  I  know  I  can't.  I  can't  bear  it.  I 
simply  can't  bear  it,  and  there's  an  end  of  it.  I  can't,  I  tell 
you.  I  can't  bear  it.  I'm  buried  alive  —  simply  buried  alive. 
And  it's  more  than  I  can  stand.  It  is,  really." 

There  was  an  odd  clang,  like  a  taunt,  in  her  voice.  She 
was  trying  them  all. 

"But  what  do  you  want,  dear?"  asked  Miss  Frost,  knit- 
ting her  dark  brows  in  agitation. 

"  I  want  to  go  away,"  said  Alvina  bluntly. 

Miss  Frost  gave  a  slight  gesture  with  her  right  hand,  of 
helpless  impatience.  It  was  so  characteristic,  that  Alvina 
almost  laughed. 

"  But  where  do  you  want  to  go  ?  "  asked  Miss  Frost. 

"  I  don't  know.  I  don't  care,"  said  Alvina.  "  Anywhere, 
if  I  can  get  out  of  Woodhouse." 

"Do  you  wish  you  had  gone  to  Australia?  "  put  in  Miss 
Pinnegar. 

"  No,  I  don't  wish  I  had  gone  to  Australia,"  retorted  Alvina 
with  a  rude  laugh.  "Australia  isn't  the  only  other  place 
besides  Woodhouse." 

Miss  Pinnegar  was  naturally  offended.  But  the  curious  in- 
solence which  sometimes  came  out  in  the  girl  was  inherited 
direct  from  her  father. 

"You  see,  dear,"  said  Miss  Frost,  agitated:  "if  you  knew 
what  you  wanted,  it  would  be  easier  to  see  the  way." 

"  I  want  to  be  a  nurse,"  rapped  out  Alvina. 

Miss  Frost  stood  still,  with  the  stillness  of  a  middle-aged 
disapproving  woman,  and  looked  at  her  charge.  She  be- 

36 


THE  ^ATERNITY  NURSE  37 

lieved  that  Alvina  was  just  speaking  at  random.  Yet  she 
dared  not  check  her,  in  her  present  mood. 

Alvina  was  indeed  speaking  at  random.  She  had  never 
thought  of  being  a  nurse  —  the  idea  had  never  entered  her 
head.  If  it  had  she  would  certainly  never  have  entertained 
it.  But  she  had  heard  Alexander  speak  of  Nurse  This  and 
Sister  That.  And  so  she  had  rapped  out  her  declaration. 
And  having  rapped  it  out,  she  prepared  herself  to  stick  to 
it.  Nothing  like  leaping  before  you  look. 

"A  nurse!  "  repeated  Miss  Frost.  "But  do  you  feel  your- 
self fitted  to  be  a  nurse?  Do  you  think  you  could  bear  it?  " 

"  Yes,  I'm  sure  I  could,"  retorted  Alvina.  "  I  want  to  be 
a  maternity  nurse  — "  She  looked  strangely,  even  outrag- 
eously, at  her  governess.  "  I  want  to  be  a  maternity  nurse. 
Then  I  shouldn't  have  to  attend  operations."  And  she  laughed 
quickly. 

Miss  Frost's  right  hand  beat  like  a  wounded  bird.  It  was 
reminiscent  of  the  way  she  beat  time,  insistently,  when  she 
was  giving  music  lessons,  sitting  close  beside  her  pupils  at 
the  piano.  Now  it  beat  without  time  or  reason.  Alvina 
smiled  brightly  and  cruelly. 

"Whatever  put  such  an  idea  into  your  head,  Vina?" 
asked  poor  Miss  Frost. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Alvina,  still  more  archly  and  brightly. 

"  Of  course  you  don't  mean  it,  dear,"  said  Miss  Frost,  quail- 
ing. 

"  Yes,  I  do.     Why  should  I  say  it  if  I  don't.  " 

Miss  Frost  would  have  done  anything  to  escape  the  arch, 
bright,  cruel  eyes  of  her  charge. 

"  Then  we  must  think  about  it,"  she  said,  numbly.  And  she 
went  away. 

Alvina  floated  off  to  her  room,  and  sat  by  the  window 
looking  down  on  the  street.  The  bright,  arch  look  was  still 
on  her  face.  But  her  heart  was  sore.  She  wanted  to  cry, 
and  fling  herself  on  the  breast  of  her  darling.  But  she 
couldn't.  No,  for  her  life  she  couldn't.  Some  little  devil 
sat  in  her  breast  and  kept  her  smiling  archly. 

Somewhat  to  her  amazement,  he  sat  steadily  on  for  days 
and  days.  Every  minute  she  expected  him  to  go.  Every  min- 
ute she  expected  to  break  down,  to  burst  into  tears  and  ten- 
derness and  reconciliation.  But  no  —  she  did  not  break  down. 
She  persisted.  They  all  waited  for  the  old  loving  Vina  to 


38  THE  LOST  GIRL 

be  herself  again.  But  the  new  and  recalcitrant  Vina  still 
shone  hard.  She  found  a  copy  of  The  Lancet,  and  saw  an  ad- 
vertisement of  a  home  in  Islington  where  maternity  nurses 
would  be  fully  trained  and  equipped  in  six  months'  time.  The 
fee  was  sixty  guineas.  Alvina  declared  her  intention  of  de- 
parting to  this  training  home.  She  had  two  hundred  pounds 
of  her  own,  bequeathed  by  her  grandfather. 

In  Manchester  House  they  were  all  horrified  —  not  moved 
with  grief,  this  time,  but  shocked.  It  seemed  such  a  repul- 
sive and  indelicate  step  to  take.  Which  it  was.  And  which, 
in  her  curious  perverseness,  Alvina  must  have  intended  it  to 
be.  Mrs.  Houghton  assumed  a  remote  air  of  silence,  as  if 
she  did  not  hear  any  more,  did  not  belong.  She  lapsed  far 
away.  She  was  really  very  weak.  Miss  Pinnegar  said: 
"  Well  really,  if  she  wants  to  do  it,  why,  she  might  as  well 
try."  And,  as  often  with  Miss  Pinnegar,  this  speech  seemed  to 
contain  a  veiled  threat. 

"A  maternity  nurse!  "  said  James  Houghton.  "A  mater- 
nity nurse!  What  exactly  do  you  mean  by  a  maternity 
nurse?" 

"  A  trained  mid-wife,"  said  Miss  Pinnegar  curtly.  "  That's 
it,  isn't  it?  It  is  as  far  as  I  can  see.  A  trained  mid-wife." 

"  Yes,  of  course,"  said  Alvina  brightly. 

"  But  —  !  "  stammered  James  Houghton,  pushing  his  spec- 
tacles up  on  to  his  forehead,  and  making  his  long  fleece  of 
painfully  thin  hair  uncover  his  baldness.  "  I  can't  under- 
stand that  any  young  girl  of  any  —  any  upbringing,  any 
upbringing  whatever,  should  want  to  choose  such  a  —  such 
an  —  occupation.  I  can't  understand  it." 

"  Can't  you?  "  said  Alvina  brightly. 

"  Oh  well,  if  she  does  —  "  said  Miss  Pinnegar  cryptically. 

Miss  Frost  said  very  little.  But  she  had  serious  confiden- 
tial talks  with  Dr.  Fordham.  Dr.  Fordham  didn't  approve, 
certainly  he  didn't  —  but  neither  did  he  see  any  great  harm 
in  it.  At  that  time  it  was  rather  the  thing  for  young  ladies 
to  enter  the  nursing  profession,  if  their  hopes  had  been 
blighted  or  checked  in  another  direction!  And  so,  enquiries 
were  made.  Enquiries  were  made. 

The  upshot  was,  that  Alvina  was  to  go  to  Islington  for 
her  six  months'  training.  There  was  a  great  bustle,  pre- 
paring her  nursing  outfit.  Instead  of  a  trousseau,  nurse's 
uniforms  in  fine  blue-and-white  stripe,  with  great  white  aprons. 


THE  MATERNITY  NURSE  39 

Instead  of  a  wreath  of  orange  blossom,  a  rather  chic  nurse's 
bonnet  of  blue  silk,  and  for  a  trailing  veil,  a  blue  silk  fall. 

Well  and  good!  Alvina  expected  to  become  frightened, 
as  the  time  drew  near.  But  no,  she  wasn't  a  bit  frightened. 
Miss  Frost  watched  her  narrowly.  Would  there  not  be  a 
return  of  the  old,  tender,  sensitive,  shrinking  Vina  —  the  ex- 
quisitely sensitive  and  nervous,  loving  girl?  No,  astound- 
ing as  it  may  seem,  there  was  no  return  of  such  a  creature. 
Alvina  remained  bright  and  ready,  the  half-hilarious  clang 
remained  in  her  voice,  taunting.  She  kissed  them  all  good- 
bye, brightly  and  sprightlily,  and  off  she  set.  She  wasn't 
nervous. 

She  came  to  St.  Pancras,  she  got  her  cab,  she  drove  off  to 
her  destination  —  and  as  she  drove,  she  looked  out  of  the 
window.  Horrid,  vast,  stony,  dilapidated,  crumbly-stuccoed 
streets  and  squares  of  Islington,  grey,  grey,  greyer  by  far 
than  Woodhouse,  and  interminable.  How  exceedingly  sor- 
did and  disgusting!  But  instead  of  being  repelled  and  heart- 
broken, Alvina  enjoyed  it.  She  felt  her  trunk  rumble  on  the 
top  of  the  cab,  and  still  she  looked  out  on  the  ghastly  dilapi- 
dated flat  facades  of  Islington,  and  still  she  smiled  brightly, 
as  if  there  were  some  charm  in  it  all.  Perhaps  for  her  there 
was  a  charm  in  it  all.  Perhaps  it  acted  like  a  tonic  on  the 
little  devil  in  her  breast.  Perhaps  if  she  had  seen  tufts  of 
snowdrops  —  it  was  February  —  and  yew-hedges  and  cot- 
tage windows,  she  would  have  broken  down.  As  it  was,  she 
just  enjoyed  it.  She  enjoyed  glimpsing  in  through  uncurtained 
windows,  into  sordid  rooms  where  human  beings  moved  as 
if  sordidly  unaware.  She  enjoyed  the  smell  of  a  toasted  bloater, 
rather  burnt.  So  common!  so  indescribably  common!  And 
she  detested  bloaters,  because  of  the  hairy  feel  of  the  spines  in 
her  mouth.  But  to  smell  them  like  this,  to  know  that  she  was 
in  the  region  of  "penny  beef -steaks,"  gave  her  a  perverse 
pleasure. 

The  cab  stopped  at  a  yellow  house  at  the  corner  of  a 
square  where  some  shabby  bare  trees  were  flecked  with  bits 
of  blown  paper,  bits  of  paper  and  refuse  cluttered  inside  the 
round  railings  of  each  tree.  She  went  up  some  dirty-yellow- 
ish steps,  and  rang  the  "  Patients' "  bell,  because  she  knew  she 
ought  not  to  ring  the  "  Tradesmen's."  A  servant,  not  exactly 
dirty,  but  unattractive,  let  her  into  a  hall  painted  a  dull  drab, 
and  floored  with  cocoa-matting,  otherwise  bare.  Then  up  bare 


40  THE  LOST  GIRL 

stairs  to  a  room  where  a  stout,  pale,  common  woman  with  two 
warts  on  her  face,  was  drinking  tea.  It  was  three  o'clock. 
This  was  the  matron.  The  matron  soon  deposited  her  in  a 
bedroom,  not  very  small,  but  bare  and  hard  and  dusty-seeming, 
and  there  left  her.  Alvina  sat  down  on  her  chair,  looked  at 
her  box  opposite  her,  looked  round  the  uninviting  room,  and 
smiled  to  herself.  Then  she  rose  and  went  to  the  window:  a 
very  dirty  window,  looking  down  into  a  sort  of  well  of  an 
area,  with  other  wells  ranging  along,  and  straight  opposite 
like  a  reflection  another  solid  range  of  back-premises,  with 
iron  stair-ways  and  horrid  little  doors  and  washing  and  little 
W.  C.'s  and  people  creeping  up  and  down  like  vermin.  Al- 
vina shivered  a  little,  but  still  smiled.  Then  slowly  she 
began  to  take  off  her  hat.  She  put  it  down  on  the  drab- 
painted  chest  of  drawers. 

Presently  the  servant  came  in  with  a  tray,  set  it  down,  lit 
a  naked  gas-jet,  which  roared  faintly,  and  drew  down  a 
crackly  dark-green  blind,  which  showed  a  tendency  to  fly 
back  again  alertly  to  the  ceiling. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Alvina,  and  the  girl  departed. 

Then  Miss  Houghton  drank  her  black  tea  and  ate  her  bread 
and  margarine. 

Surely  enough  books  have  been  written  about  heroines  in 
similar  circumstances.  There  is  no  need  to  go  into  the  de- 
tails of  Alvina's  six  months  in  Islington. 

The  food  was  objectionable  —  yet  Alvina  got  fat  on  it. 
The  air  was  filthy  —  and  yet  never  had  her  colour  been  so 
warm  and  fresh,  her  skin  so  soft.  Her  companions  were 
almost  without  exception  vulgar  and  coarse  —  yet  never  had 
she  got  on  so  well  with  women  of  her  own  age  —  or  older 
than  herself.  She  was  ready  with  a  laugh  and  a  word,  and 
though  she  was  unable  to  venture  on  indecencies  herself,  yet 
she  had  an  amazing  faculty  for  looking  knowing  and  in- 
decent beyond  words,  rolling  her  eyes  and  pitching  her  eye- 
brows in  a  certain  way  —  oh,  it  was  quite  sufficient  for  her 
companions!  And  yet,  if  they  had  ever  actually  demanded 
a  dirty  story  or  a  really  open  indecency  from  her,  she  would 
have  been  floored. 

But  she  enjoyed  it.  Amazing  how  she  enjoyed  it.  She 
did  not  care  how  revolting  and  indecent  these  nurses  were  — 
she  put  on  a  look  as  if  she  were  in  with  it  all,  and  it  all 
passed  off  as  easy  as  winking.  She  swung  her  haunches  and 


THE  MATERNITY  NURSE  41 

arched  her  eyes  with  the  best  of  them.  And  they  behaved 
as  if  she  were  exactly  one  of  themselves.  And  yet,  with 
the  curious  cold  tact  of  women,  they  left  her  alone,  one  and 
all,  in  private:  just  ignored  her. 

It  is  truly  incredible  how  Alvina  became  blooming  and 
bouncing  at  this  time.  Nothing  shocked  her,  nothing  upset 
her.  She  was  always  ready  with  her  hard,  nurse's  laugh 
and  her  nurse's  quips.  No  one  was  better  than  she  at  double- 
entendues.  No  one  could  better  give  the  nurse's  leer.  She 
had  it  all  in  a  fortnight.  And  never  once  did  she  feel  any- 
thing but  exhilarated  and  in  full  swing.  It  seemed  to  her 
she  had  not  a  moment's  time  to  brood  or  reflect  about  things  — 
she  was  too  much  in  the  swing.  Every  moment,  in  the  swing, 
living,  or  active  in  full  swing.  When  she  got  into  bed  she 
went  to  sleep.  When  she  awoke,  it  was  morning,  and  she 
got  up.  As  soon  as  she  was  up  and  dressed  she  had  some- 
body to  answer,  something  to  say,  something  to  do.  Time 
passed  like  an  express  train  —  and  she  seemed  to  have  known 
no  other  life  than  this. 

Not  far  away  was  a  lying-in  hospital.  A  dreadful  place 
it  was.  There  she  had  to  go,  right  off,  and  help  with  cases. 
There  she  had  to  attend  lectures  and  demonstrations.  There 
she  met  the  doctors  and  students.  Well,  a  pretty  lot  they 
were,  one  way  and  another.  When  she  had  put  on  flesh  and 
become  pink  and  bouncing  she  was  just  their  sort:  just  their 
very  ticket.  Her  voice  had  the  right  twang,  her  eyes  the 
right  roll,  her  haunches  the  right  swing.  She  seemed  alto- 
gether just  the  ticket.  And  yet  she  wasn't. 

It  would  be  useless  to  say  she  was  not  shocked.  She 
was  profoundly  and  awfully  shocked.  Her  whole  state  was 
perhaps  largely  the  result  of  shock:  a  sort  of  play-acting 
based  on  hysteria.  But  the  dreadful  things  she  saw  in  the 
lying-in  hospital,  and  afterwards,  went  deep,  and  finished  her 
youth  and  her  tutelage  for  ever.  How  many  infernos  deeper 
than  Miss  Frost  could  ever  know,  did  she  not  travel?  the  in- 
ferno of  the  human  animal,  the  human  organism  in  its  con- 
vulsions, the  human  social  beast  in  its  abjection  and  its  degra- 
dation. 

For  in  her  latter  half  she  had  to  visit  the  slum  cases.  And 
such  cases!  A  woman  lying  on  a  bare,  filthy  floor,  a  few 
old  coats  thrown  over  her,  and  vermin  crawling  everywhere, 
in  spite  of  sanitary  inspectors.  But  what  did  the  woman, 


42  THE  LOST  GIRL 

the  sufferer,  herself  care !  She  ground  her  teeth  and  screamed 
and  yelled  with  pains.  In  her  calm  periods  she  lay  stupid 
and  indifferent  —  or  she  cursed  a  little.  But  abject,  stupid 
indifference  was  the  bottom  of  it  all :  abject,  brutal  indifference 
to  everything  —  yes,  everything.  Just  a  piece  of  female  func- 
tioning, no  more. 

Alvina  was  supposed  to  receive  a  certain  fee  for  these 
cases  she  attended  in  their  homes.  A  small  proportion  of 
her  fee  she  kept  for  herself,  the  rest  she  handed  over  to  the 
Home.  That  was  the  agreement.  She  received  her  grudged 
fee  callously,  threatened  and  exacted  it  when  it  was  not 
forthcoming.  Ha !  —  if  they  didn't  have  to  pay  you  at  all, 
these  slum-people,  they  would  treat  you  with  more  contempt 
than  if  you  were  one  of  themselves.  It  was  one  of  the  hard* 
est  lessons  Alvina  had  to  learn  —  to  bully  these  people,  in 
their  own  hovels,  into  some  sort  of  obedience  to  her  com- 
mands, and  some  sort  of  respect  for  her  presence.  She  had 
to  fight  tooth  and  nail  for  this  end.  And  in  a  week  she 
was  as  hard  and  callous  to  them  as  they  to  her.  And  so 
her  work  was  well  done.  She  did  not  hate  them.  There 
they  were.  They  had  a  certain  life,  and  you  had  to  take 
them  at  their  own  worth  in  their  own  way.  What  else! 
If  one  should  be  gentle,  one  was  gentle.  The  difficulty  did 
not  lie  there.  The  difficulty  lay  in  being  sufficiently  rough 
and  hard:  that  was  the  trouble.  It  cost  a  great  struggle  to 
be  hard  and  callous  enough.  Glad  she  would  have  been  to 
be  allowed  to  treat  them  quietly  and  gently,  with  considera- 
tion. But  pah  —  it  was  not  their  line.  They  wanted  to  be 
callous,  and  if  you  were  not  callous  to  match,  they  made 
a  fool  of  you  and  prevented  your  doing  your  work. 

Was  Alvina  her  own  real  self  all  this  time?  The  mighty 
question  arises  upon  us,  what  is  one's  own  real  self?  It 
certainly  is  not  what  we  think  we  are  and  ought  to  be. 
Alvina  had  been  bred  to  think  of  herself  as  a  delicate,  tender, 
chaste  creature  with  unselfish  inclinations  and  a  pure,  "  high  " 
mind.  Well,  so  she  was,  in  the  more-or-less  exhausted  part 
of  herself.  But  high-mindedness  had  really  come  to  an  end 
with  James  Houghton,  had  really  reached  the  point,  not  only 
of  pathetic,  but  of  dry  and  anti-human,  repulsive  quixotry.  In 
Alvina  high-mindedness  was  already  stretched  beyond  the 
breaking  point.  Being  a  woman  of  some  flexibility  of  temper, 


THE  MATERNITY  NURSE  43 

wrought  through  generations  to  a  fine,  pliant  hardness,  she 
flew  back.  She  went  right  back  on  high-mindedness.  Did 
she  thereby  betray  it? 

We  think  not.  If  we  turn  over  the  head  of  the  penny 
and  look  at  the  tail,  we  don't  thereby  deny  or  betray  the 
head.  We  do  but  adjust  it  to  its  own  complement.  And 
so  with  high-mindedness.  It  is  but  one  side  of  the  medal  — 
the  crowned  reverse.  On  the  obverse  the  three  legs  still  go 
kicking  the  soft-footed  spin  of  the  universe,  the  dolphin  flirts 
and  the  crab  leers. 

So  Alvina  spun  her  medal,  and  her  medal  came  down 
tails.  Heads  or  tails?  Heads  for  generations.  Then  tails. 
See  the  poetic  justice. 

Now  Alvina  decided  to  accept  the  decision  of  her  fate.  Or 
rather,  being  sufficiently  a  woman,  she  didn't  decide  any- 
thing. She  was  her  own  fate.  She  went  through  her  train- 
ing experiences  like  another  being.  She  was  not  herself, 
said  Everybody.  When  she  came  home  to  Woodhouse  at 
Easter,  in  her  bonnet  and  cloak,  Everybody  was  simply 
knocked  out.  Imagine  that  this  frail,  pallid,  diffident  girl, 
so  ladylike,  was  now  a  rather  fat,  warm-coloured  young 
woman,  strapping  and  strong-looking,  and  with  a  certain 
bounce.  Imagine  her  mother's  startled,  almost  expiring : 

"Why,  Vina  dear!" 

Vina  laughed.     She  knew  how  they  were  all  feeling. 

"At  least  it  agrees  with  your  health,"  said  her  father, 
sarcastically,  to  which  Miss  Pinnegar  answered: 

"Well,  that's  a  good  deal." 

But  Miss  Frost  said  nothing  the  first  day.  Only  the 
second  day,  at  breakfast,  as  Alvina  ate  rather  rapidly  and 
rather  well,  the  white-haired  woman  said  quietly,  with  a  tinge 
of  cold  contempt: 

"  How  changed  you  are,  dear !  " 

"Am  I?"  laughed  Alvina.  "Oh,  not  really."  And  she 
gave  the  arch  look  with  her  eyes,  which  made  Miss  Frost 
shudder. 

Inwardly,  Miss  Frost  shuddered,  and  abstained  from  ques- 
tioning. Alvina  was  always  speaking  of  the  doctors:  Doc- 
tor Young  and  Doctor  Headley  and  Doctor  James.  She 
spoke  of  theatres  and  music-halls  with  these  young  men,  and 
the  jolly  good  time  she  had  with  them.  And  her  blue-grey 


44  THE  LOST  GIRL 

eyes  seemed  to  have  become  harder  and  greyer,  lighter  some- 
how. In  her  wistfulness  and  her  tender  pathos,  Alvina's 
eyes  would  deepen  their  blue,  so  beautiful.  And  now,  in  her 
floridity,  they  were  bright  and  arch  and  light-grey.  The  deep, 
tender,  flowery  blue  was  gone  for  ever.  They  were  luminous 
and  crystalline,  like  the  eyes  of  a  changeling. 

Miss  Frost  shuddered,  and  abstained  from  question.  She 
wanted,  she  needed  to  ask  of  her  charge:  "  Alvina,  have  you 
betrayed  yourself  with  any  of  these  young  men?  "  But  coldly 
her  heart  abstained  from  asking  —  or  even  from  seriously 
thinking.  She  left  the  matter  untouched  for  the  moment. 
She  was  already  too  much  shocked. 

Certainly  Alvina  represented  the  young  doctors  as  very 
nice,  but  rather  fast  young  fellows.  "  My  word,  you  have 
to  have  your  wits  about  you  with  them!  "  Imagine  such  a 
speech  from  a  girl  tenderly  nurtured:  a  speech  uttered  in 
her  own  home,  and  accompanied  by  a  florid  laugh,  which 
would  lead  a  chaste,  generous  woman  like  Miss  Frost  to 
imagine  —  well,  she  merely  abstained  from  imagining  any- 
thing. She  had  that  strength  of  mind.  She  never  for  one 
moment  attempted  to  answer  the  question  to  herself,  as  to 
whether  Alvina  had  betrayed  herself  with  any  of  these  young 
doctors,  or  not.  The  question  remained  stated,  but  com- 
pletely unanswered  —  coldly  awaiting  its  answer.  Only  when 
Miss  Frost  kissed  Alvina  good-bye  at  the  station,  tears  came 
to  her  eyes,  and  she  said  hurriedly,  in  a  low  voice: 

"  Remember  we  are  all  praying  for  you,  dear !  " 

"No,  don't  do  that!"  cried  Alvina  involuntarily,  without 
knowing  what  she  said. 

And  then  the  train  moved  out,  and  she  saw  her  darling 
standing  there  on  the  station,  the  pale,  well-modelled  face 
looking  out  from  behind  the  gold-rimmed  spectacles,  wist- 
fully, the  strong,  rather  stout  figure  standing  very  still  and 
unchangeable,  under  its  coat  and  skirt  of  dark  purple,  the 
white  hair  glistening  under  the  folded  dark  hat.  Alvina 
threw  herself  down  on  the  seat  of  her  carriage.  She  loved 
her  darling.  She  would  love  her  through  eternity.  She  knew 
she  was  right  —  amply  and  beautifully  right,  her  darling, 
her  beloved  Miss  Frost.  Eternally  and  gloriously  right. 

And  yet  —  and  yet  —  it  was  a  right  which  was  fulfilled. 
There  were  other  rights.  There  was  another  side  to  the 
medal.  Purity  and  high-mindedness  —  the  beautiful,  but 


THE  MATERNITY  NURSE  45 

unbearable  tyranny.  The  beautiful,  unbearable  tyranny  of 
Miss  Frost!  It  was  time  now  for  Miss  Frost  to  die.  It  was 
time  for  that  perfected  flower  to  be  gathered  to  immortality. 
A  lovely  immortel.  But  an  obstruction  to  other,  purple  and 
carmine  blossoms  which  were  in  bud  on  the  stem.  A  lovely 
edelweiss  —  but  time  it  was  gathered  into  eternity.  Black- 
purple  and  red  anemones  were  due,  real  Adonis  blood,  and 
strange  individual  orchids,  spotted  and  fantastic.  Time  for 
Miss  Frost  to  die.  She,  Alvina,  who  loved  her  as  no  one 
else  would  ever  love  her,  with  that  love  which  goes  to  the  core 
of  the  universe,  knew  that  it  was  time  for  her  darling  to  be 
folded,  oh,  so  gently  and  softly,  into  immortality.  Mor- 
tality was  busy  with  the  day  after  her  day.  It  was  time  for 
Miss  Frost  to  die.  As  Alvina  sat  motionless  in  the  train,  run- 
ning from  Woodhouse  to  Tibshelf,  it  decided  itself  in  her. 

She  was  glad  to  be  back  in  Islington,  among  all  the  hor- 
ors  of  her  confinement  cases.  The  doctors  she  knew  hailed 
her.  On  the  whole,  these  young  men  had  not  any  too  deep 
respect  for  the  nurses  as  a  whole.  Why  drag  in  respect? 
Human  functions  were  too  obviously  established  to  make 
any  great  fuss  about.  And  so  the  doctors  put  their  arms 
round  Alvina's  waist,  because  she  was  plump,  and  they  kissed 
her  face,  because  the  skin  was  soft.  And  she  laughed  and 
squirmed  a  little,  so  that  they  felt  all  the  more  her  warmth 
and  softness  under  their  arm's  pressure. 

"  It's  no  use,  you  know,"  she  said,  laughing  rather  breath- 
less, but  looking  into  their  eyes  with  a  curious  definite  look 
of  unchangeable  resistance.  This  only  piqued  them. 

"  What's  no  use?  "  they  asked. 

She  shook  her  head  slightly. 

"  It  isn't  any  use  your  behaving  like  that  with  me,"  she 
said,  with  the  same  challenging  definiteness,  finality:  a  flat 
negative. 

"  Who're  you  telling?  "  they  said. 

For  she  did  not  at  all  forbid  them  to  "behave  like  that." 
Not  in  the  least.  She  almost  encouraged  them.  She  laughed 
and  arched  her  eyes  and  flirted.  But  her  backbone  became 
only  the  stronger  and  firmer.  Soft  and  supple  as  she  was, 
her  backbone  never  yielded  for  an  instant.  It  could  not. 
She  had  to  confess  that  she  liked  the  young  doctors.  They 
were  alert,  their  faces  were  clean  and  bright-looking.  She 
liked  the  sort  of  intimacy  with  them,  when  they  kissed  her 


46  THE  LOST  GIRL 

and  wrestled  with  her  in  the  empty  laboratories  or  corridors 
—  often  in  the  intervals  of  most  critical  and  appalling  cases. 
She  liked  their  arm  round  her  waist,  the  kisses  as  she  reached 
back  her  face,  straining  away,  the  sometimes  desperate  strug- 
gles. They  took  unpardonable  liberties.  They  pinched  her 
haunches  and  attacked  her  in  unheard-of  ways.  Sometimes 
her  blood  really  came  up  in  the  fight,  and  she  felt  as  if, 
with  her  hands,  she  could  tear  any  man,  any  male  creature, 
limb  from  limb.  A  super-human,  voltaic  force  filled  her. 
For  a  moment  she  surged  in  massive,  inhuman,  female  strength. 
The  men  always  wilted.  And  invariably,  when  they  wilted, 
she  touched  them  with  a  sudden  gentle  touch,  pitying.  So 
that  she  always  remained  friends  with  them.  When  her  curi- 
ous Amazonic  power  left  her  again,  and  she  was  just  a  mere 
woman,  she  made  shy  eyes  at  them  once  more,  and  treated 
them  with  the  inevitable  female-to-male  homage. 

The  men  liked  her.  They  cocked  their  eyes  at  her,  when 
she  was  not  looking,  and  wondered  at  her.  They  wondered 
over  her.  They  had  been  beaten  by  her,  every  one  of  them. 
But  they  did  not  openly  know  it.  They  looked  at  her,  as  if 
she  were  Woman  itself,  some  creature  not  quite  personal. 
What  they  noticed,  all  of  them,  was  the  way  her  brown 
hair  looped  over  her  ears.  There  was  something  chaste,  and 
noble,  and  war-like  about  it.  The  remote  quality  which 
hung  about  her  in  the  midst  of  her  intimacies  and  her  fre- 
quencies, nothing  high  or  lofty,  but  something  given  to  the 
struggle  and  as  yet  invincible  in  the  struggle,  made  them 
seek  her  out. 

They  felt  safe  with  her.  They  knew  she  would  not  let 
them  down.  She  would  not  intrigue  into  marriage,  or  try 
and  make  use  of  them  in  any  way.  She  didn't  care  about 
them.  And  so,  because  of  her  isolate  self-sufficiency  in  the 
fray,  her  wild,  overweening  backbone,  they  were  ready  to 
attend  on  her  and  serve  her.  Headley  in  particular  hoped 
he  might  overcome  her.  He  was  a  well-built  fellow  with 
sandy  hair  and  a  pugnacious  face.  The  battle-spirit  was 
really  roused  in  him,  and  he  heartily  liked  the  woman.  If 
he  could  have  overcome  her  he  would  have  been  mad  to 
marry  her. 

With  him,  she  summoned  up  all  her  mettle.  She  had 
never  to  be  off  her  guard  for  a  single  minute.  The  treacher- 
ous suddenness  of  his  attack  —  for  he  was  treachery  itself  — 


THE  MATERNITY  NURSE  47 

had  to  be  met  by  the  voltaic  suddenness  of  her  resistance 
and  counter-attack.  It  was  nothing  less  than  magical  the 
way  the  soft,  slumbering  body  of  the  woman  could  leap  in 
one  jet  into  terrible,  overwhelming  voltaic  force,  something 
strange  and  massive,  at  the  first  treacherous  touch  of  the 
man's  determined  hand.  His  strength  was  so  different  from 
hers  —  quick,  muscular,  lambent.  But  hers  was  deep  and 
heaving,  like  the  strange  heaving  of  an  earthquake,  or  the 
heave  of  a  bull  as  it  rises  from  earth.  And  by  sheer  non- 
human  power,  electric  and  paralysing,  she  could  overcome 
the  brawny  red-headed  fellow. 

He  was  nearly  a  match  for  her.  But  she  did  not  like  him. 
The  two  were  enemies  —  and  good  acquaintances.  They  were 
more  or  less  matched.  But  as  he  found  himself  continually 
foiled,  he  became  sulky,  like  a  bear  with  a  sore  head.  And 
then  she  avoided  him. 

She  really  liked  Young  and  James  much  better.  James 
was  a  quick,  slender,  dark-haired  fellow,  a  gentleman,  who 
was  always  trying  to  catch  her  out  with  his  quickness.  She 
liked  his  fine,  slim  limbs,  and  his  exaggerated  generosity. 
He  would  ask  her  out  to  ridiculously  expensive  suppers,  and 
send  her  sweets  and  flowers,  fabulously  recherche.  He  was 
always  immaculately  well-dressed. 

"  Of  course,  as  a  lady  and  a  nurse,"  he  said  to  her,  "  you 
are  two  sorts  of  women  in  one." 

But  she  was  not  impressed  by  his  wisdom. 

She  was  most  strongly  inclined  to  Young.  He  was  a 
plump  young  man  of  middle  height,  with  those  blue  eyes  of 
a  little  boy  which  are  so  knowing:  particularly  of  a 
woman's  secrets.  It  is  a  strange  thing  that  these  childish 
men  have  such  a  deep,  half -perverse  knowledge  of  the  other 
sex.  Young  was  certainly  innocent  as  far  as  acts  went. 
Yet  his  hair  was  going  thin  at  the  crown  already. 

He  also  played  with  her  —  being  a  doctor,  and  she  a  nurse 
who  encouraged  it.  He  too  touched  her  and  kissed  her:  and 
did  not  rouse  her  to  contest.  For  his  touch  and  his  kiss  had 
that  nearness  of  a  little  boy's,  which  nearly  melted  her. 
She  could  almost  have  succumbed  to  him.  If  it  had  not 
been  that  with  him  there  was  no  question  of  succumbing. 
She  would  have  had  to  take  him  between  her  hands  and 
caress  and  cajole  him  like  a  cherub,  into  a  fall.  And  though 
she  would  have  liked  to  do  so,  yet  that  inflexible  stiffness 


48  THE  LOST  GIRL 

of  her  backbone  prevented  her.  She  could  not  do  as  she 
liked.  There  was  an  inflexible  fate  within  her,  which  shaped 
her  ends. 

Sometimes  she  wondered  to  herself,  over  her  own  vir- 
ginity. Was  it  worth  much,  after  all,  behaving  as  she  did? 
Did  she  care  about  it,  anyhow?  Didn't  she  rather  despise 
it?  To  sin  in  thought  was  as  bad  as  to  sin  in  act.  If  the 
thought  was  the  same  as  the  act,  how  much  more  was  her 
behaviour  equivalent  to  a  whole  committal?  She  wished 
she  were  wholly  committed.  She  wished  she  had  gone  the 
whole  length. 

But  sophistry  and  wishing  did  her  no  good.  There  she 
was,  still  isolate.  And  still  there  was  that  in  her  which 
would  preserve  her  intact,  sophistry  and  deliberate  inten- 
tion notwithstanding.  Her  time  was  up.  She  was  return- 
ing to  Woodhouse  virgin  as  she  had  left  it.  In  a  measure 
she  felt  herself  beaten.  Why?  Who  knows.  But  so  it 
was,  she  felt  herself  beaten,  condemned  to  go  back  to  what 
she  was  before.  Fate  had  been  too  strong  for  her  and  her 
desires:  fate  which  was  not  an  external  association  of  forces, 
but  which  was  integral  in  her  own  nature.  Her  own  in- 
scrutable nature  was  her  fate :  sore  against  her  will. 

It  was  August  when  she  came  home,  in  her  nurse's  uni- 
form. She  was  beaten  by  fate,  as  far  as  chastity  and  vir- 
ginity went.  But  she  came  home  with  high  material  hopes. 
Here  was  James  Houghton's  own  daughter.  She  had  an 
affluent  future  ahead  of  her.  A  fully-qualified  maternity 
nurse,  she  was  going  to  bring  all  the  babies  of  the  district 
easily  and  triumphantly  into  the  world.  She  was  going  to 
charge  the  regulation  fee  of  two  guineas  a  case:'  and  even 
on  a  modest  estimate  of  ten  babies  a  month,  she  would  have 
twenty  guineas.  For  well-to-do  mothers  she  would  charge 
from  three  to  five  guineas,  At  this  calculation  she  would 
make  an  easy  three  hundred  a  year,  without  slaving  either. 
She  would  be  independent,  she  could  laugh  every  one  in  the 
face. 

She  bounced  back  into  Woodhouse  to  make  her  fortune. 


CHAPTER  IV 

TWO   WOMEN  DIE 

IT  goes  without  saying  that  Alvina  Houghton  did  not  make 
her  fortune  as  a  maternity  nurse.  Being  her  father's  daugh- 
ter, we  might  almost  expect  that  she  did  not  make  a  penny. 
But  she  did  —  just  a  few  pence.  She  had  exactly  four  cases  — 
and  then  no  more. 

The  reason  is  obvious.  Who  in  Woodhouse  was  going 
to  afford  a  two-guinea  nurse,  for  a  confinement?  And  who 
who  was  going  to  engage  Alvina  Houghton,  even  if  they 
were  ready  to  stretch  their  purse-strings?  After  all,  they 
all  knew  her  as  Miss  Houghton,  with  a  stress  on  the  Miss, 
and  they  could  not  conceive  of  her  as  Nurse  Houghton. 
Besides,  there  seemed  something  positively  indecent  in  tech- 
nically engaging  one  who  was  so  much  part  of  themselves. 
They  all  preferred  either  a  simple  mid-wife,  or  a  nurse  pro- 
cured out  of  the  unknown  by  the  doctor. 

If  Alvina  wanted  to  make  her  fortune  —  or  even  her  living 
—  she  should  have  gone  to  a  strange  town.  She  was  so 
advised  by  every  one  she  knew.  But  she  never  for  one 
moment  reflected  on  the  advice.  She  had  become  a  mater- 
nity nurse  in  order  to  practise  in  Woodhouse,  just  as  James 
Houghton  had  purchased  his  elegancies  to  sell  in  Wood- 
house.  And  father  and  daughter  alike  calmly  expected  Wood- 
house  demand  to  rise  to  their  supply.  So  both  alike  were 
defeated  in  their  expectations. 

For  a  little  while  Alvina  flaunted  about  in  her  nurse's 
uniform.  Then  she  left  it  off.  And  as  she  left  it  off  she  lost 
her  bounce,  her  colour,  and  her  flesh.  Gradually  she  shrank 
back  to  the  old,  slim,  reticent  pallor,  with  eyes  a  little  too 
large  for  her  face.  And  now  it  seemed  her  face  was  a  little 
too  long,  a  little  gaunt.  And  in  her  civilian  clothes  she 
seemed  a  little  dowdy,  shabby.  And  altogether,  she  looked 
older:  she  looked  more  than  her  age,  which  was  only  twenty- 
four  years.  Here  was  the  old  Alvina  come  back,  rather 
battered  and  deteriorated,  apparently.  There  was  even  a 

49 


50  THE  LOST  GIRL 

tiny  touch  of  the  trollops  in  her  dowdiness  —  so  the  shrewd- 
eyed  collier-wives  decided.  But  she  was  a  lady  still,  and 
unbeaten.  Undeniably  she  was  a  lady.  And  that  was  rather 
irritating  to  the  well-to-do  and  florid  daughter  of  W.  H. 
Johnson,  next  door  but  one.  Undeniably  a  lady,  and  unde- 
niably unmastered.  This  last  was  irritating  to  the  good- 
natured  but  easy-coming  young  men  in  the  Chapel  Choir, 
where  she  resumed  her  seat.  These  young  men  had  the  good 
nature  of  dogs  that  wag  their  tails  and  expect  to  be  patted. 
And  Alvina  did  not  pat  them.  To  be  sure,  a  pat  from 
such  a  shabbily-black-kid-gloved  hand  would  not  have  been 
so  flattering  —  she  need  not  imagine  it!  The  way  she  hung 
back  and  looked  at  them,  the  young  men,  as  knowing  as 
if  she  were  a  prostitute,  and  yet  with  the  well-bred  indifference 
of  a  lady  —  well,  it  was  almost  offensive. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  Alvina  was  detached  for  the  time 
being  from  her  interest  in  young  men.  Manchester  House 
had  settled  down  on  her  like  a  doom.  There  was  the  quar- 
tered shop,  through  which  one  had  to  worm  one's  encum- 
bered way  in  the  gloom  —  unless  one  liked  to  go  miles  round 
a  back  street,  to  the  yard  entry.  There  was  James  Hough- 
ton,  faintly  powdered  with  coal-dust,  flitting  back  and  forth 
in  a  fever  of  nervous  frenzy,  to  Throttle-Ha'penny  —  so  car- 
ried away  that  he  never  saw  his  daughter  at  all  the  first  time 
he  came  in,  after  her  return.  And  when  she  reminded  him 
of  her  presence,  with  her  —  "  Hello,  father !  "  —  he  merely 
glancied  hurriedly  at  her,  as  if  vexed  with  her  interruption, 
and  said: 

"  Well,  Alvina,  you're  back.  You're  back  to  find  us  busy." 
And  he  went  off  into  his  ecstasy  again. 

Mrs.  Houghton  was  now  very  weak,  and  so  nervous  in  her 
weakness  that  she  could  not  bear  the  slightest  sound.  Her 
greatest  horror  was  lest  her  husband  should  come  into  the 
room.  On  his  entry  she  became  blue  at  the  lips  imme- 
diately, so  he  had  to  hurry  out  again.  At  last  he  stayed 
away,  only  hurriedly  asking,  each  time  he  came  into  the 
house,  "How  is  Mrs.  Houghton?  Ha!"  Then  off  into 
uninterrupted  Throttle-Ha'penny  ecstasy  once  more. 

When  Alvina  went  up  to  her  mother's  room,  on  her  re- 
turn, all  the  poor  invalid  could  do  was  to  tremble  into  tears, 
and  cry  faintly: 

"  Child,  you  look  dreadful.     It  isn't  you." 


TWO  WOMEN  DIE  51 

This  from  the  pathetic  little  figure  in  the  bed  had  struck 
Alvina  like  a  blow. 

"Why  not,  mother?  "  she  asked. 

But  for  her  mother  she  had  to  remove  her  nurse's  uni- 
form. And  at  the  same  time,  she  had  to  constitute  herself 
nurse.  Miss  Frost,  and  a  woman  who  came  in,  and  the  ser- 
vant had  been  nursing  the  invalid  between  them.  Miss  Frost 
was  worn  and  rather  heavy:  her  old  buoyancy  and  brightness 
was  gone.  She  had  become  irritable  also.  She  was  very 
glad  that  Alvina  had  returned  to  take  this  responsibility  of 
nursing  off  her  shoulders.  For  her  wonderful  energy  had 
ebbed  and  oozed  away. 

Alvina  said  nothing,  but  settled  down  to  her  task.  She 
was  quiet  and  technical  with  her  mother.  The  two  loved 
one  another,  with  a  curious  impersonal  love  which  had  not  a 
single  word  to  exchange:  an  almost  after-death  love.  In 
these  days  Mrs.  Houghton  never  talked  —  unless  to  fret  a 
little.  So  Alvina  sat  for  many  hours  in  the  lofty,  sombre 
bedroom,  looking  out  silently  on  the  street,  or  hurriedly 
rising  to  attend  the  sick  woman.  For  continually  came  the 
fretful  murmur: 

"Vina!" 

To  sit  still  —  who  knows  the  long  discipline  of  it,  nowa- 
days, as  our  mothers  and  grandmothers  knew.  To  sit  still, 
for  days,  months,  and  years  —  perforce  to  sit  still,  with  some 
dignity  of  tranquil  bearing.  Alvina  was  old-fashioned. 
She  had  the  old,  womanly  faculty  for  sitting  quiet  and  col- 
lected—  not  indeed  for  a  life-time,  but  for  long  spells  to- 
gether. And  so  it  was  during  these  months  nursing  her 
mother.  She  attended  constantly  on  the  invalid:  she  did 
a  good  deal  of  work  about  the  house:  she  took  her  walks 
and  occupied  her  place  in  the  choir  on  Sunday  mornings. 
And  yet,  from  August  to  January,  she  seemed  to  be  seated 
in  her  chair  in  the  bedroom,  sometimes  reading,  but  mostly 
quite  still,  her  hands  quietly  in  her  lap,  her  mind  subdued 
by  musing.  She  did  not  even  think,  not  even  remember. 
Even  such  activity  would  have  made  her  presence  too  dis- 
turbing in  the  room.  She  sat  quite  still,  with  all  her  activities 
in  abeyance  —  except  that  strange  will-to-passivity  which  was 
by  no  means  a  relaxation,  but  a  severe,  deep,  soul-discipline. 

For  the  moment  there  was  a  sense  of  prosperity  —  or 
probable  prosperity,  in  the  house.  And  there  was  an  abun- 


52  THE  LOST  GIRL 

dance  of  Throttle-Ha'penny  coal.  It  was  dirty  ashy  stuff. 
The  lower  bars  of  the  grate  were  constantly  blanked  in  with 
white  powdery  ash,  which  it  was  fatal  to  try  to  poke  away. 
For  if  you  poked  and  poked,  you  raised  white  cumulus 
clouds  of  ash,  and  you  were  left  at  last  with  a  few  darkening 
and  sulphurous  embers.  But  even  so,  by  continuous  appli- 
cation, you  could  keep  the  room  moderately  warm,  without 
feeling  you  were  consuming  the  house's  meat  and  drink  in 
the  grate.  Which  was  one  blessing. 

The  days,  the  months  darkened  past,  and  Alvina  returned 
to  her  old  thinness  and  pallor.  Her  fore-arms  were  thin, 
they  rested  very  still  in  her  lap,  there  was  a  ladylike  stillness 
about  them  as  she  took  her  walk,  in  her  lingering,  yet  watch- 
ful fashion.  She  saw  everything.  Yet  she  passed  without 
attracting  any  attention. 

Early  in  the  year  her  mother  died.  Her  father  came  and 
wept  self-conscious  tears,  Miss  Frost  cried  a  little,  painfully. 
And  Alvina  cried  also:  she  did  not  quite  know  why  or 
wherefore.  Her  poor  mother!  Alvina  had  the  old-fashioned 
wisdom  to  let  be,  and  not  to  think.  After  all,  it  was  not 
for  her  to  reconstruct  her  parents'  lives.  She  came  after 
them.  Her  day  was  not  their  day,  their  life  was  not  hers. 
Returning  up-channel  to  re-discover  their  course  was  quite 
another  matter  from  flowing  down-stream  into  the  unknown, 
as  they  had  done  thirty  years  before.  This  supercilious  and 
impertinent  exploration  of  the  generation  gone  by,  by  the 
present  generation,  is  nothing  to  our  credit.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  no  generation  repeats  the  mistakes  of  the  generation 
ahead,  any  more  than  any  river  repeats  its  course.  So  the 
young  need  not  be  so  proud  of  their  superiority  over  the  old. 
The  young  generation  glibly  makes  its  own  mistakes :  and  /  ow 
detestable  these  new  mistakes  are,  why,  only  the  future  will 
be  able  to  tell  us.  But  be  sure  they  are  quite  as  detestable, 
quite  as  full  of  lies  and  hypocrisy,  as  any  of  the  mistakes  of  our 
parents.  There  is  no  such  thing  as  absolute  wisdom. 

Wisdom  has  reference  only  to  the  past.  The  future  re- 
mains for  ever  an  infinite  field  for  mistakes.  You  can't  know 
beforehand. 

So  Alvina  refrained  from  pondering  on  her  mother's  life 
and  fate.  Whatever  the  fate  of  the  mother,  the  fate  of  the 
daughter  will  be  otherwise.  That  is  organically  inevitable. 


TWO  WOMEN  DIE  53 

The  business  of  the  daughter  is  with  her  own  fate,  not  with 
her  mother's. 

Miss  Frost  however  meditated  bitterly  on  the  fate  of  the 
poor  dead  woman.  Bitterly  she  brooded  on  the  lot  of 
woman.  Here  was  Clariss  Houghton,  married,  and  a  mother 
—  and  dead.  What  a  life!  Who  was  responsible?  James 
Houghton.  What  ought  James  Houghton  to  have  done  dif- 
ferently? Everything.  In  short,  he  should  have  been  some- 
body else,  and  not  himself.  Which  is  the  reductio  ad  ab- 
surdtim  of  idealism.  The  universe  should  be  something  else, 
and  not  what  it  is:  so  the  nonsense  of  idealistic  conclusion. 
The  cat  should  not  catch  the  mouse,  the  mouse  should  not 
nibble  holes  in  the  table-cloth,  and  so  on  and  so  on,  in  the 
House  that  Jack  Built. 

But  Miss  Frost  sat  by  the  dead  in  grief  and  despair.  This 
was  the  end  of  another  woman's  life:  such  an  end!  Poor 
Clariss:  guilty  James. 

Yet  why?  Why  was  James  more  guilty  than  Clariss?  Is 
the  only  aim  and  end  of  a  man's  life,  to  make  some  woman, 
or  parcel  of  women,  happy?  Why?  Why  should  anybody 
expect  to  be  made  happy,  and  develop  heart-disease  if  she 
isn't?  Surely  Clariss'  heart-disease  was  a  more  emphatic 
sign  of  obstinate  self-importance  than  ever  James'  shop-win- 
dows were.  She  expected  to  be  made  happy.  Every  woman 
in  Europe  and  America  expects  it.  On  her  own  head  then 
if  she  is  made  unhappy:  for  her  expectation  is  arrogant  and 
impertinent.  The  be-all  and  end-all  of  life  doesn't  lie  in 
feminine  happiness  —  or  in  any  happiness.  Happiness  is 
a  sort  of  soap-tablet  —  he  won't  be  happy  till  he  gets  it, 
and  when  he's  got  it,  the  precious  baby,  it'll  cost  him  his  eyes 
and  his  stomach.  Could  anything  be  more  puerile  than  a 
mankind  howling  because  it  isn't  happy:  like  a  baby  in  the 
bath! 

Poor  Clariss,  however,  was  dead  —  and  if  she  had  devel- 
oped heart-disease  because  she  wasn't  happy,  well,  she  had 
died  of  her  own  heart-disease,  poor  thing.  Wherein  lies 
every  moral  that  mankind  can  wish  to  draw. 

Miss  Frost  wept  in  anguish,  and  saw  nothing  but  another 
woman  betrayed  to  sorrow  and  a  slow  death.  Sorrow  and 
a  slow  death,  because  a  man  had  married  her.  Miss  Frost 
wept  also  for  herself,  for  her  own  sorrow  and  slow  death. 


54  THE  LOST  GIRL 

Sorrow  and  slow  death,  because  a  man  had  not  married  her. 
Wretched  man,  what  is  he  to  do  with  these  exigeant  and 
never-to-be-satisfied  women?  Our  mothers  pined  because  our 
fathers  drank  and  were  rakes.  Our  wives  pine  because  we  are 
virtuous  but  inadequate.  Who  is  this  sphinx,  this  woman? 
Where  is  the  CEdipus  that  will  solve  her  riddle  of  happiness, 
and  then  strangle  her?  —  only  to  marry  his  own  mother! 

In  the  months  that  followed  her  mother's  death,  Alvina 
went  on  the  same,  in  abeyance.  She  took  over  the  house- 
keeping, and  received  one  or  two  overflow  pupils  from  Miss 
Frost,  young  girls  to  whom  she  gave  lessons  in  the  dark 
drawing-room  of  Manchester  House.  She  was  busy — chiefly 
with  housekeeping.  There  seemed  a  great  deal  to  put  in 
order  after  her  mother's  death. 

She  sorted  all  her  mother's  clothes  —  expensive,  old- 
fashioned  clothes,  hardly  worn.  What  was  to  be  done  with 
them?  She  gave  them  away,  without  consulting  anybody. 
She  kept  a  few  private  things,  she  inherited  a  few  pieces  of 
jewellery.  Remarkable  how  little  trace  her  mother  left  — 
hardly  a  trace. 

She  decided  to  move  into  the  big,  monumental  bedroom  in 
front  of  the  house.  She  liked  space,  she  liked  the  windows. 
She  was  strictly  mistress,  too.  So  she  took  her  place.  Her 
mother's  little  sitting-room  was  cold  and  disused. 

Then  Alvina  went  through  all  the  linen.  There  was  still 
abundance,  and  it  was  all  sound.  James  had  had  such  large 
ideas  of  setting  up  house,  in  the  beginning.  And  now  he 
begrudged  the  household  expenses,  begrudged  the  very  soap 
and  candles,  and  even  would  have  liked  to  introduce  mar- 
garine instead  of  butter.  This  last  degradation  the  women 
refused.  But  James  was  above  food. 

The  old  Alvina  seemed  completely  herself  again.  She  was 
quiet,  dutiful,  affectionate.  She  appealed  in  her  old,  childish 
way  to  Miss  Frost,  and  Miss  Frost  called  her  "Dear!  "  with 
all  the  old  protective  gentleness.  But  there  was  a  difference. 
Underneath  her  appearance  of  appeal,  Alvina  was  almost 
coldly  independent.  She  did  what  she  thought  she  would. 
The  old  manner  of  intimacy  persisted  between  her  and  her 
darling.  And  perhaps  neither  of  them  knew  that  the  inti- 
macy itself  had  gone.  But  it  had.  There  was  no  spontan- 
eous interchange  between  them.  It  was  a  kind  of  deadlock. 
Each  knew  the  great  love  she  felt  for  the  other.  But  now 


TWO  WOMEN  DIE  55 

it  was  a  love  static,  inoperative.  The  warm  flow  did  not  run 
any  more.  Yet  each  would  have  died  for  the  other,  would 
have  done  anything  to  spare  the  other  hurt. 

Miss  Frost  was  becoming  tired,  dragged  looking.  She 
would  sink  into  a  chair  as  if  she  wished  never  to  rise  again 
—  never  to  make  the  effort.  And  Alvina  quickly  would  at- 
tend on  her,  bring  her  tea  and  take  away  her  music,  try  to 
make  everything  smooth.  And  continually  the  young  woman 
exhorted  the  elder  to  work  less,  to  give  up  her  pupils.  But 
Miss  Frost  answered  quickly,  nervously: 

"  When  I  don't  work  I  shan't  live." 

"  But  why  —  ?  "  came  the  long  query  from  Alvina.  And 
in  her  expostulation  there  was  a  touch  of  mockery  for  such 
a  creed. 

Miss  Frost  did  not  answer.     Her  face  took  on  a  greyish  tinge. 

In  these  days  Alvina  struck  up  an  odd  friendship  with 
Miss  Pinnegar,  after  so  many  years  of  opposition.  She  felt 
herself  more  in  sympathy  with  Miss  Pinnegar  —  it  was  so 
easy  to  get  on  with  her,  she  left  so  much  unsaid.  What 
was  left  unsaid  mattered  more  to  Alvina  now  than  anything 
that  was  expressed.  She  began  to  hate  outspokenness  and 
direct  speaking-forth  of  the  whole  mind.  It  nauseated  her. 
She  wanted  tacit  admission  of  difference,  not  open,  whole- 
hearted communication.  And  Miss  Pinnegar  made  this  ad- 
mission all  along.  .She  never  made  you  feel  for  an  instant 
that  she  was  one  with  you.  She  was  never  even  near.  She 
kept  quietly  on  her  own  ground,  and  left  you  on  yours.  And 
across  the  space  came  her  quiet  commonplaces  —  but  fraught 
with  space. 

With  Miss  Frost  all  was  openness,  explicit  and  downright. 
Not  that  Miss  Frost  trespassed.  She  was  far  more  well-bred 
than  Miss  Pinnegar.  But  her  very  breeding  had  that 
Protestant,  northern  quality  which  assumes  that  we  have  all 
the  same  high  standards,  really,  and  all  the  same  divine  nature, 
intrinsically.  It  is  a  fine  assumption.  But  willy-nilly,  it 
sickened  Alvina  at  this  time. 

She  preferred  Miss  Pinnegar,  and  admired  Miss  Pinnegar's 
humble  wisdom  with  a  new  admiration.  The  two  were  talk- 
ing of  Dr.  Headley,  who,  they  read  in  the  newspaper,  had 
disgraced  himself  finally. 

"I  suppose,"  said  Miss  Pinnegar,  "it  takes  his  sort  to 
make  all  sorts." 


56  THE  LOST  GIRL 

Such  bits  of  homely  wisdom  were  like  relief  from  cramp 
and  pain,  to  Alvina.  "  It  takes  his  sort  to  make  all  sorts." 
It  took  her  sort  too.  And  it  took  her  father's  sort  —  as  well 
as  her  mother's  and  Miss  Frost's.  It  took  every  sort  to  make 
all  sorts.  Why  have  standards  and  a  regulation  pattern? 
Why  have  a  human  criterion?  There's  the  point!  Why,  in 
the  name  of  all  the  free  heavens,  have  human  criteria?  Why? 
Simply  for  bullying  and  narrowness. 

Alvina  felt  at  her  ease  with  Miss  Pinnegar.  The  two 
women  talked  away  to  one  another,  in  their  quiet  moments: 
and  slipped  apart  like  conspirators  when  Miss  Frost  came 
in:  as  if  there  was  something  to  be  ashamed  of.  If  there 
was,  heaven  knows  what  it  might  have  been,  for  their  talk 
was  ordinary  enough.  But  Alvina  liked  to  be  with  Miss 
Pinnegar  in  the  kitchen.  Miss  Pinnegar  wasn't  competent 
and  masterful  like  Miss  Frost:  she  was  ordinary  and  unin- 
spired, with  quiet,  unobserved  movements.  But  she  was  deep, 
and  there  was  some  secret  satisfaction  in  her  very  quality  of 
secrecy. 

So  the  days  and  weeks  and  months  slipped  by,  and  Alvina 
was  hidden  like  a  mole  in  the  dark  chambers  of  Manchester 
House,  busy  with  cooking  and  cleaning  and  arranging,  get- 
ting the  house  in  her  own  order,  and  attending  to  her  pupils. 
She  took  her  walk  in  the  afternoon.  Once  and  only  once 
she  went  to  Throttle-Ha'penny,  and,  seized  with  sudden  curi- 
osity, insisted  on  being  wound  down  in  the  iron  bucket  to 
the  little  workings  underneath.  Everything  was  quite  tidy  in 
the  short  gang-ways  down  below,  timbered  and  in  sound  or- 
der. The  miners  were  competent  enough.  But  water  dripped 
dismally  in  places,  and  there  was  a  stale  feeling  in  the  air. 

Her  father  accompanied  her,  pointed  her  to  the  seam  of 
yellow-flecked  coal,  the  shale  and  the  bind,  the  direction  of 
the  trend.  He  had  already  an  airy-fairy  kind  of  knowledge 
of  the  whole  affair,  and  seemed  like  some  not  quite  trust- 
worthy conjuror  who  had  conjured  it  all  up  by  sleight  of 
hand.  In  the  background  the  miners  stood  grey  and  ghostly, 
in  the  candle-light,  and  seemed  to  listen  sardonically.  One 
of  them,  facile  in  his  subordinate  way  as  James  in  his  au- 
thoritative, kept  chiming  in: 

"Ay,  that's  the  road  it  goes,  Miss  Huffen  —  yis,  yo'll  see 
th'  roof  theer  bellies  down  a  bit  —  s'  loose.  No,  you  dunna 
get  th'  puddin'  stones  i'  this  pit  —  s'  not  deep  enough.  Eh, 


TWO  WOMEN  DIE  57 

they  come  down  on  you  plumb,  as  if  th'  roof  had  laid  its 
egg  on  you.  Ay,  it  runs  a  bit  thin  down  here  —  six  inches. 
You  see  th'  bed's  soft,  it's  a  sort  o'  clay-bind,  it's  not  clunch 
such  as  you  get  deeper.  Oh,  it's  easy  workin' —  you  don't 
have  to  knock  your  guts  out.  There's  no  need  for  shots, 
Miss  Huff  en  —  we  bring  it  down  —  you  see  here  —  "  And  he 
stooped,  pointing  to  a  shallow,  shelving  excavation  which  he 
was  making  under  the  coal.  The  working  was  low,  you  must 
stoop  all  the  time.  The  roof  and  the  timbered  sides  of 
the  way  seemed  to  press  on  you.  It  was  as  if  she  were  in 
her  tomb  for  ever,  like  the  dead  and  everlasting  Egyptians. 
She  was  frightened,  but  fascinated.  The  collier  kept  on 
talking  to  her,  stretching  his  bare,  grey-black  hairy  arm 
across  her  vision,  and  pointing  with  his  knotted  hand.  The 
thick-wicked  tallow  candles  guttered  and  smelled.  There  was 
a  thickness  in  the  air,  a  sense  of  dark,  fluid  presence  in  the 
thick  atmosphere,  the  dark,  fluid,  viscous  voice  of  the  col- 
lier making  a  broad-vowelled,  clapping  sound  in  her  ear. 
He  seemed  to  linger  near  her  as  if  he  knew  —  as  if  he  knew  — 
what?  Something  for  ever  unknowable  and  inadmissible, 
something  that  belonged  purely  to  the  underground:  to  the 
slaves  who  work  underground:  knowledge  humiliated,  sub- 
jected, but  ponderous  and  inevitable.  And  still  his  voice 
went  on  clapping  in  her  ear,  and  still  his  presence  edged 
near  her,  and  seemed  to  impinge  on  her  —  a  smallish,  semi- 
grotesque,  grey-obscure  figure  with  a  naked  brandished  fore- 
arm: not  human:  a  creature^  of  the  subterranean  world, 
melted  out  like  a  bat,  fluid.  She  felt  herself  melting  out 
also,  to  become  a  mere  vocal  ghost,  a  presence  in  the  thick 
atmosphere.  Her  lungs  felt  thick  and  slow,  her  mind  dis- 
solved, she  felt  she  could  cling  like  a  bat  in  the  long  swoon 
of  the  crannied,  underworld  darkness.  Cling  like  a  bat  and 

sway  for  ever  swooning  in  the  draughts  of  the  darkness 

When  she  was  up  on  the  earth  again  she  blinked  and 
peered  at  the  world  in  amazement.  What  a  pretty,  lumin- 
ous place  it  was,  carved  in  substantial  luminosity.  What 
a  strange  and  lovely  place,  bubbling  iridescent-golden  on 
the  surface  of  the  underworld.  Iridescent  golden  —  could 
anything  be  more  fascinating!  Like  lovely  glancing  surface 
on  fluid  pitch.  But  a  velvet  surface.  A  velvet  surface  of 
golden  light,  velvet-pile  of  gold  and  pale  luminosity,  and 
strange  beautiful  elevations  of  houses  and  trees,  and  depres- 


58  THE  LOST  GIRL 

sions  of  fields  and  roads,  all  golden  and  floating  like  atmos- 
pheric majolica.  Never  had  the  common  ugliness  of  Wood- 
house  seemed  so  entrancing.  She  thought  she  had  never 
seen  such  beauty  —  a  lovely  luminous  majolica,  living  and 
palpitating,  the  glossy,  svelte  world-surface,  the  exquisite 
face  of  all  the  darkness.  It  was  like  a  vision.  Perhaps 
gnomes  and  subterranean  workers,  enslaved  in  the  era  of 
light,  see  with  such  eyes.  Perhaps  that  is  why  they  are 
absolutely  blind  to  conventional  ugliness.  For  truly  noth- 
ing could  be  more  hideous  than  Woodhouse,  as  the  miners 
had  built  it  and  disposed  it.  And  yet,  the  very  cabbage- 
stumps  and  rotten  fences  of  the  gardens,  the  very  back-yards 
were  instinct  with  magic,  molten  as  they  seemed  with  the 
bubbling-up  of  the  under-darkness,  bubbling  up  of  majolica 
weight  and  luminosity,  quite  ignorant  of  the  sky,  heavy  and 
satisfying. 

Slaves  of  the  underworld!  She  watched  the  swing  of  the 
grey  colliers  along  the  pavement  with  a  new  fascination, 
hypnotized  by  a  new  vision.  Slaves  —  the  underground  trolls 
and  iron-workers,  magic,  mischievous,  and  enslaved,  of  the 
ancient  stories.  But  tall  —  the  miners  seemed  to  her  to  loom 
tall  and  grey,  in  their  enslaved  magic.  Slaves  who  would 
cause  the  superimposed  day-order  to  fall.  Not  because,  in- 
dividually, they  wanted  to.  But  because,  collectively,  some- 
thing bubbled  up  in  them,  the  force  of  darkness  which  had 
no  master  and  no  control.  It  would  bubble  and  stir  in  them 
as  earthquakes  stir  the  earth.  It  would  be  simply  disastrous, 
because  it  had  no  master.  There  was  no  dark  master  in  the 
world.  The  puerile  world  went  on  crying  out  for  a  new 
Jesus,  another  Saviour  from  the  sky,  another  heavenly  super- 
man. When  what  was  wanted  was  a  Dark  Master  from  the 
underworld. 

So  they  streamed  past  her,  home  from  work  —  grey  from 
head  to  foot,  distorted  in  shape,  cramped,  with  curious  faces 
that  came  out  pallid  from  under  their  dirt.  Their  walk  was 
heavy-footed  and  slurring,  their  bearing  stiff  and  grotesque. 
A  stream  they  were  —  yet  they  seemed  to  her  to  loom  like 
strange,  valid  figures  of  fairy-lore,  unrealized  and  as  yet 
unexperienced.  The  miners,  the  iron-workers,  those  who  fash- 
ion the  stuff  of  the  underworld. 

As  it  always  comes  to  its  children,  the  nostalgia  of  the 
repulsive,  heavy-footed  Midlands  came  over  her  again,  even 


TWO  WOMEN  DIE  59 

whilst  she  was  there  in  the  midst.  The  curious,  dark,  inex- 
plicable and  yet  insatiable  craving — as  if  for  an  earthquake. 
To  feel  the  earth  heave  and  shudder  and  shatter  the  world 
from  beneath.  To  go  down  in  the  debacle. 

And  so,  in  spite  of  everything,  poverty,  dowdiness,  obscu- 
rity, and  nothingness,  she  was  content  to  stay  in  abeyance 
at  home  for  the  time.  True,  she  was  rilled  with  the  same 
old,  slow,  dreadful  craving  of  the  Midlands:  a  craving  in- 
satiable and  inexplicable.  But  the  very  craving  kept  her 
still.  For  at  this  time  she  did  not  translate  it  into  a  desire, 
or  need,  for  love.  At  the  back  of  her  mind  somewhere  was 
the  fixed  idea,  the  fixed  intention  of  finding  love,  a  man. 
But  as  yet,  at  this  period,  the  idea  was  in  abeyance,  it  did 
not  act.  The  craving  that  possessed  her  as  it  possesses  every- 
body, in  a  greater  or  less  degree,  in  those  parts,  sustained 
her  darkly  and  unconsciously. 

A  hot  summer  waned  into  autumn,  the  long,  bewildering 
days  drew  in,  the  transient  nights,  only  a  few  breaths  of 
shadow  between  noon  and  noon,  deepened  and  strengthened. 
A  restlessness  came  over  everybody.  There  was  another  short 
strike  among  the  miners.  James  Houghton,  like  an  excited 
beetle,  scurried  to  and  fro,  feeling  he  was  making  his  for- 
tune. Never  had  Woodhouse  been  so  thronged  on  Fridays 
with  purchasers  and  money-spenders.  The  place  seemed  sur- 
charged  with  life. 

Autumn  lasted  beautiful  till  end  of  October.  And  then, 
suddenly,  cold  rain,  endless  cold  rain,  and  darkness  heavy, 
wet,  ponderous.  Through  the  wind  and  rain  it  was  a  toil  to 
move.  Poor  Miss  Frost,  who  had  seemed  almost  to  blos- 
som again  in  the  long  hot  days,  regaining  a  free  cheerful- 
ness that  amounted  almost  to  liveliness,  and  who  even  caused 
a  sort  of  scandal  by  her  intimacy  with  a  rather  handsome 
but  common  stranger,  an  insurance  agent  who  had  come  into 
the  place  with  a  good,  unused  tenor  voice  —  now  she  wilted 
again.  She  had  given  the  rather  florid  young  man  tea  in 
her  room,  and  had  laboured  away  at  his  fine,  metallic  voice, 
correcting  him  and  teaching  him  and  laughing  with  him  and 
spending  really  a  remarkable  number  of  hours  alone  with  him 
in  her  room  in  Woodhouse  —  for  she  had  given  up  tramping 
the  country,  and  had  hired  a  music-room  in  a  quiet  street, 
where  she  gave  her  lessons.  And  the  young  man  had  hung 
round,  and  had  never  wanted  to  go  away.  They  would  prolong 


60  THE  LOST  GIRL 

their  tete-a-tete  and  their  singing  on  till  ten  o'clock  at  night, 
and  Miss  Frost  would  return  to  Manchester  House  flushed  and 
handsome  and  a  little  shy,  while  the  young  man,  who  was  com- 
mon, took  on  a  new  boldness  in  the  streets.  He  had  auburn 
hair,  high  colouring,  and  a  rather  challenging  bearing.  He 
took  on  a  new  boldness,  his  own  estimate  of  himself  rose  con- 
siderably, with  Miss  Frost  and  his  trained  voice  to  justify  him. 
He  was  a  little  insolent  and  condescending  to  the  natives,  who 
disliked  him.  For  their  lives  they  could  not  imagine  what 
Miss  Frost  could  find  in  him.  They  began  even  to  dislike 
her,  and  a  pretty  scandal  was  started  about  the  pair,  in  the 
pleasant  room  where  Miss  Frost  had  her  piano,  her  books, 
and  her  flowers.  The  scandal  was  as  unjust  as  most  scandals 
are.  Yet  truly,  all  that  summer  and  autumn  Miss  Frost  had 
a  new  and  slightly  aggressive  cheerfulness  and  humour.  And 
Manchester  House  saw  little  of  her,  comparatively. 

And  then,  at  the  end  of  September,  the  young  man  was 
removed  by  his  Insurance  Company  to  another  district.  And 
at  the  end  of  October  set  in"  the  most  abominable  and  unbear- 
able weather,  deluges  of  rain  and  north  winds,  cutting  the 
tender,  summer-unfolded  people  to  pieces.  Miss  Frost  wilted 
at  once.  A  silence  came  over  her.  She  shuddered  when  she 
had  to  leave  the  fire.  She  went  in  the  morning  to  her  room, 
and  stayed  there  all  the  day,  in  a  hot,  close  atmosphere, 
shuddering  when  her  pupils  brought  the  outside  weather  with 
them  to  her. 

She  was  always  subject  to  bronchitis.  In  November  she  had 
a  bad  bronchitis  cold.  Then  suddenly  one  morning  she  could 
not  get  up.  Alvina  went  in  and  found  her  semi-conscious. 

The  girl  was  almost  mad.  She  flew  to  the  rescue.  She 
despatched  her  father  instantly  for  the  doctor,  she  heaped 
the  sticks  in  the  bedroom  grate  and  made  a  bright  fire,  she 
brough  hot  milk  and  brandy. 

"Thank  you,  dear,  thank  you.  It's  a  bronchial  cold," 
whispered  Miss  Frost  hurriedly,  trying  to  sip  the  milk.  She 
could  not.  She  didn't  want  it. 

"  I've  sent  for  the  doctor,"  said  Alvina,  in  her  cool  voice, 
wherein  none  the  less  there  rang  the  old  hesitancy  of  sheer 
love. 

Miss  Frost  lifted  her  eyes: 

"There's  no  need,"  she  said,  and  she  smiled  winsomely  at 
Alvina. 


TWO  WOMEN  DIE  61 

It  was  pneumonia.  Useless  to  talk  of  the  distracted  anguish 
of  Alvina  during  the  next  two  days.  She  was  so  swift  and 
sensitive  in  her  nursing,  she  seemed  to  have  second  sight.  She 
talked  to  nobody.  In  her  silence  her  soul  was  alone  with  the 
soul  of  her  darling.  The  long  semi-consciousness  and  the  tear- 
ing pain  of  pneumonia,  the  anguished  sickness. 

But  sometimes  the  grey  eyes  would  open  and  smile  with 
delicate  winsomeness  at  Alvina,  and  Alvina  smiled  back,  with 
a  cheery,  answering  winsomeness.  But  that  costs  something. 

On  the  evening  of  the  second  day,  Miss  Frost  got  her  hand 
from  under  the  bedclothes,  and  laid  it  on  Alvina's  hand. 
Alvina  leaned  down  to  her. 

"  Everything  is  for  you,  my  love,"  whispered  Miss  Frost, 
looking  with  strange  eyes  on  Alvina's  face. 

"  Don't  talk,  Miss  Frost,"  moaned  Alvina. 

"  Everything  is  for  you,"  murmured  the  sick  woman  — 
"  except  — "  and  she  enumerated  some  tiny  legacies  which 
showed  her  generous,  thoughtful  nature. 

"Yes,  I  shall  remember,"  said  Alvina,  beyond  tears  now. 

Miss  Frost  smiled  with  her  old  bright,  wonderful  look, 
that  had  a  touch  of  queenliness  in  it. 

"  Kiss  me,  dear,"  she  whispered. 

Alvina  kissed  her,  and  could  not  suppress  the  whimper- 
ing of  her  too-much  grief. 

The  night  passed  slowly.  Sometimes  the  grey  eyes  of  the 
sick  woman  rested  dark,  dilated,  haggard  on  Alvina's  face, 
with  a  heavy,  almost  accusing  look,  sinister.  Then  they 
closed  again.  And  sometimes  they  looked  pathetic,  with  a 
mute,  stricken  appeal.  Then  again  they  closed  —  only  to 
open  again  tense  with  pain.  Alvina  wiped  her  blood- 
phlegmed  lips. 

In  the  morning  she  died  —  lay  there  haggard,  death- 
smeared,  with  her  lovely  white  hair  smeared  also,  and  dis- 
orderly: she  who  had  been  so  beautiful  and  clean  always. 

Alvina  knew  death  —  which  is  untellable.  She  knew  that 
her  darling  carried  away  a  portion  of  her  own  soul  into 
death. 

But  she  was  alone.  And  the  agony  of  being  alone,  the 
agony  of  grief,  passionate,  passionate  grief  for  her  darling 
who  was  torn  into  death  —  the  agony  of  self-reproach,  re- 
gret; the  agony  of  remembrance;  the  agony  of  the  looks  of 
the  dying  woman,  winsome,  and  sinisterly  accusing,  and 


62  THE  LOST  GIRL 

pathetically,  despairingly  appealing  —  probe  after  probe  of 
mortal  agony,  which  throughout  eternity  would  never  lose 
its  power  to  pierce  to  the  quick! 

Alvina  seemed  to  keep  strangely  calm  and  aloof  all  the 
days  after  the  death.  Only  when  she  was  alone  she  suffered 
till  she  felt  her  heart  really  broke. 

"  I  shall  never  feel  anything  any  more,"  she  said  in  her 
abrupt  way  to  Miss  Frost's  friend,  another  woman  of  over 
fifty. 

"  Nonsense,  child !  "  expostulated  Mrs.  Lawson  gently. 

"I  shan't!  I  shall  never  have  a  heart  to  feel  anything 
any  more,"  said  Alvina,  with  a  strange,  distraught  roll  of 
the  eyes. 

"  Not  like  this,  child.     But  you'll  feel  other  things  —  " 

"  I  haven't  the  heart,"  persisted  Alvina. 

"Not  yet,"  said  Mrs.  Lawson  gently.  "You  can't  expect 
—  But  time  —  time  brings  back  —  " 

"  Oh  well  —  but  I  don't  believe  it,"  said  Alvina. 

People  thought  her  rather  hard.  To  one  of  her  gossips 
Miss  Pinnegar  confessed: 

"  I  thought  she'd  have  felt  it  more.  She  cared  more  for 
her  than  she  did  for  her  own  mother  —  and  her  mother  knew 
it.  Mrs.  Houghton  complained  bitterly,  sometimes,  that  she 
had  Tio  love.  They  were  everything  to  one  another,  Miss 
Frost  and  Alvina.  I  should  have  thought  she'd  have  felt 
it  more.  But  you  never  know.  A  good  thing  if  she  doesn't, 
really." 

Miss  Pinnegar  herself  did  not  care  one  little  bit  that  Miss 
Frost  was  dead.  She  did  not  feel  herself  implicated. 

The  nearest  relatives  came  down,  and  everything  was  set- 
tled. The  will  was  found,  just  a  brief  line  on  a  piece  of 
notepaper  expressing  a  wish  that  Alvina  should  have  every- 
thing. Alvina  herself  told  the  verbal  requests.  All  was 
quietly  fulfilled. 

As  it  might  well  be.  For  there  was  nothing  to  leave. 
Just  sixty-three  pounds  in  the  bank  —  no  more:  then  the 
clothes,  piano,  books  and  music.  Miss  Frost's  brother  had 
thjese  latter,  at  his  own  request:  the  books  and  music,  and 
the  piano.  Alvina  inherited  the  few  simple  trinkets,  and 
about  forty-five  pounds  in  money. 

"  Poor  Miss  Frost,"  cried  Mrs.  Lawson,  weeping  rather 
bitterly  —  "  she  saved  nothing  for  herself.  You  can  see  why 


TWO  WOMEN  DIE  63 

she  never  wanted  to  grow  old,  so  that  she  couldn't  work. 
You  can  see.  It's  a  shame,  it's  a  shame,  one  of  the  best 
women  that  ever  trod  earth." 

Manchester  House  settled  down  to  its  deeper  silence,  its 
darker  gloom.  Miss  Frost  was  irreparably  gone.  With 
her,  the  reality  went  out  of  the  house.  It  seemed  to  be 
silently  waiting  to  disappear.  And  Alvina  and  Miss  Pinne- 
gar  might  move  about  and  talk  in  vain.  They  could  never 
remove  the  sense  of  waiting  to  finish:  it  was  all  just  wait- 
ing to  finish.  And  the  three,  James  and  Alvina  and  Miss 
Pinnegar,  waited  lingering  through  the  months,  for  the  house 
to  come  to  an  end.  With  Miss  Frost  its  spirit  passed  away: 
it  was  no  more.  Dark,  empty-feeling,  it  seemed  all  the  time 
like  a  house  just  before  a  sale. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE   BEAU 

THROTTLE-HA'PENNY  worked  fitfully  through  the  winter,  and 
in  the  spring  broke  down.  By  this  time  James  Houghton 
had  a  pathetic,  childish  look  which  touched  the  hearts  of 
Alvina  and  Miss  Pinnegar.  They  began  to  treat  him  with  a 
certain  feminine  indulgence,  as  he  fluttered  round,  agitated 
and  bewildered.  He  was  like  a  bird  that  has  flown  into  a 
room  and  is  exhausted,  enfeebled  by  its  attempts  to  fly  through 
the  false  freedom  of  the  window-glass.  Sometimes  he  would 
sit  moping  in  a  corner,  with  his  head  under  his  whig.  But 
Miss  Pinnegar  chased  him  forth,  like  the  stealthy  cat  she  was, 
chased  him  up  to  the  workroom  to  consider  some  detail  of 
work,  chased  him  into  the  shop  to  turn  over  the  old  debris  of 
the  stock.  At  one  time  he  showed  the  alarming  symptom  of 
brooding  over  his  wife's  death.  Miss  Pinnegar  was  thor- 
oughly scared.  But  she  was  not  inventive.  It  was  left  to 
Alvina  to  suggest:  "  Why  doesn't  father  let  the  shop,  and  some 
of  the  house?  " 

Let  the  shop!  Let  the  last  inch  of  frontage  on  the  street! 
James  thought  of  it.  Let  the  shop!  Permit  the  name  of 
Houghton  to  disappear  from  the  list  of  tradesmen?  With- 
draw? Disappear?  Become  a  nameless  nobody,  occupying 
obscure  premises? 

He  thought  about  it.  And  thinking  about  it,  became  so 
indignant  at  the  thought  that  he  pulled  his  scattered  ener- 
gies together  within  his  frail  frame.  And  then  he  came  out 
with  the  most  original  of  all  his  schemes.  Manchester  House 
was  to  be  fitted  up  as  a  boarding-house  for  the  better  classes, 
and  was  to  make  a  fortune  catering  for  the  needs  of  these 
gentry,  who  had  now  nowhere  to  go.  Yes,  Manchester  House 
should  be  fitted  up  as  a  sort  of  quiet  family  hotel  for  the  bet- 
ter classes.  The  shop  should  be  turned  into  an  elegant  hall- 
entrance,  carpeted,  with  a  hall-porter  and  a  wide  plate-glass 
door,  round-arched,  in  the  round  arch  of  which  the  words: 

64 


THE  BEAU  65 

"Manchester  House"  should  appear  large  and  distinguished, 
making  an  arch  also,  whilst  underneath,  more  refined  and 
smaller,  should  show  the  words:  "Private  Hotel."  James 
was  to  be  proprietor  and  secretary,  keeping  the  books  and  at- 
tending to  correspondence:  Miss  Pinnegar  was  to  be  manag- 
eress, superintending  the  servants  and  directing  the  house, 
whilst  Alvina  was  to  occupy  the  equivocal  position  of  "  host- 
ess." She  was  to  shake  hands  with  the  guests:  she  was  to 
play  the  piano,  and  she  was  to  nurse  the  sick.  For  in  the 
prospectus  James  would  include:  "Trained  nurse  always  on 
the  premises." 

"  Why !  "  cried  Miss  Pinnegar,  for  once  brutally  and 
angrily  hostile  to  him:  "You'll  make  it  sound  like  a  private 
lunatic  asylum." 

"  Will  you  explain  why?  "  answered  James  tartly. 

For  himself,  he  was  enraptured  with  the  scheme.  He 
began  to  tot  up  ideas  and  expenses.  There  would  be  the 
handsome  entrance  and  hall:  there  would  be  an  extension 
of  the  kitchen  and  scullery:  there  would  be  an  installing  of 
new  hot-water  and  sanitary  arrangements:  there  would  be 
a  light  lift-arrangment  from  the  kitchen:  there  would  be  a 
handsome  glazed  balcony  or  loggia  or  terrace  on  the  first 
floor  at  the  back,  over  the  whole  length  of  the  back-yard. 
This  loggia  would  give  a  wonderful  outlook  to  the  south-west 
and  the  west.  In  the  immediate  foreground,  to  be  sure,  would 
be  the  yard  of  the  livery-stables  and  the  rather  slummy 
dwellings  of  the  colliers,  sloping  downhill.  But  these  could 
be  easily  overlooked,  for  the  eye  would  instinctively  wander 
across  the  green  and  shallow  valley,  to  the  long  upslope 
opposite,  showing  the  Manor  set  in  its  clump  of  trees,  and 
farms  and  haystacks  pleasantly  dotted,  and  moderately  far 
off  coal-mines  with  twinkling  headstocks  and  narrow  railway- 
lines  crossing  the  arable  fields,  and  heaps  of  burning  slag. 
The  balcony  or  covered  terrace  —  James  settled  down  at  last 
to  the  word  terrace  —  was  to  be  one  of  the  features  of  the 
house:  the  feature.  It  was  to  be  fitted  up  as  a  sort  of  ele- 
gant lounging  restaurant.  Elegant  teas,  at  two-and-six  per 
head,  and  elegant  suppers,  at  five  shillings  without  wine, 
were  to  be  served  here. 

As  a  teetotaller  and  a  man  of  ascetic  views,  James,  in  his 
first  shallow  moments,  before  he  thought  about  it,  assumed 
that  his  house  should  be  entirely  non-alcoholic.  A  temper- 


66  THE  LOST  GIRL 

ance  house!  Already  he  winced.  We  all  know  what  a  pro- 
vincial Temperance  Hotel  is.  Besides,  there  is  magic  in  the 
sound  of  wine.  Wines  Served.  The  legend  attracted  him 
immensely  —  as  a  teetotaller,  it  had  a  mysterious,  hypnotic  in- 
fluence. He  must  have  wines.  He  knew  nothing  about  them. 
But  Alfred  Swayn,  from  the  Liquor  Vaults,  would  put  him  in 
the  running  in  five  minutes. 

It  was  most  curious  to  see  Miss  Pinnegar  turtle  up  at  the 
mention  of  this  scheme.  When  first  it  was  disclosed  to  her, 
her  colour  came  up  like  a  turkey's  in  a  flush  of  indignant 
anger. 

"It's  ridiculous.  It's  just  ridiculous!"  she  blurted, 
bridling  and  ducking  her  head  and  turning  aside,  like  an  in- 
dignant turkey. 

"Ridiculous!  Why?  Will  you  explain  why!"  retorted 
James,  turtling  also. 

"  It's  absolutely  ridiculous !  "  she  repeated,  unable  to  do 
more  than  splutter. 

"  Well,  we'll  see,"  said  James,  rising  to  superiority. 

And  again  he  began  to  dart  absorbedly  about,  like  a  bird 
building  a  nest.  Miss  Pinnegar  watched  him  with  a  sort  of 
sullen  fury.  She  went  to  the  shop  door  to  peep  out  after 
him.  She  saw  him  slip  into  the  Liquor  Vaults,  and  she  came 
back  to  announce  to  Alvina: 

"He's  taken  to  drink!" 

"Drink?  "said  Alvina. 

"That's  what  it  is,"  said  Miss  Pinnegar  vindictively. 
"Drink!" 

Alvina  sank  down  and  laughed  till  she  was  weak.  It  all 
seemed  really  too  funny  to  her  —  too  funny. 

"  I  can't  see  what  it  is  to  laugh  at,"  said  Miss  Pinnegar. 
"Disgraceful  —  it's  disgraceful!  But  I'm  not  going  to  stop 
to  be  made  a  fool  of.  I  shall  be  no  manageress,  I  tell  you. 
It's  absolutely  ridiculous.  Who  does  he  think  will  come  to 
the  place?  He's  out  of  his  mind  —  and  it's  drink;  that's 
what  it  is!  Going  into  the  Liquor  Vaults  at  ten  o'clock  in 
the  morning!  That's  where  he  gets  his  ideas  —  out  of 
whiskey  —  or  brandy !  But  he's  not  going  to  make  a  fool 
Ofme " 

"  Oh  dear!  "  sighed  Alvina,  laughing  herself  into  com- 
posure and  a  little  weariness.  "  I  know  it's  perfectly  ridi- 
culous. We  shall  have  to  stop  him." 


THE  BEAU  67 

"  I've  said  all  I  can  say,"  blurted  Miss  Pinnegar. 

As  soon  as  James  came  in  to  a  meal,  the  two  women  at- 
tacked him. 

"But  father,"  said  Alvina,  "there'll  be  nobody  to  come." 

"  Plenty  of  people  —  plenty  of  people,"  said  her  father. 
"  Look  at  The  Shakespeare's  Head,  in  Knarborough." 

"  Knarborough !  Is  this  Knarborough !  "  blurted  Miss  Pin- 
negar. "  Where  are  the  business  men  here?  Where  are  the 
foreigners  coming  here  for  business,  where's  our  lace-trade 
and  our  stocking-trade?  " 

"  There  are  business  men,"  said  James.  "  And  there  are 
ladies." 

"  Who,"  retorted  Miss  Pinnegar,  "  is  going  to  give  half-a- 
crown  for  a  tea?  They  expect  tea  and  bread-and-butter  for 
fourpence,  and  cake  for  sixpence,  and  apricots  or  pineapple 
for  ninepence,  and  ham-and-tongue  for  a  shilling,  and  fried 
ham  and  eggs  and  jam  and  cake  as  much  as  they  can  eat  for 
one-and-two.  If  they  expect  a  knife-and-fork  tea  for  a  shill- 
ing, what  are  you  going  to  give  them  for  half-a-crown?  " 

"I  know  what  I  shall  offer,"  said  James.  "And  we  may 
make  it  two  shillings."  Through  his  mind  flitted  the  idea 
of  1/11J  —  but  he  rejected  it.  "You  don't  realize  that  I'm 
catering  for  a  higher  class  of  custom  —  " 

"But  there  isn't  any  higher  class  in  Woodhouse,  father," 
said  Alvina,  unable  to  restrain  a  laugh. 

"  If  you  create  a  supply  you  create  a  demand,"  he  retorted. 

"  But  how  can  you  create  a  supply  of  better  class  people?  " 
asked  Alvina  mockingly. 

James  took  on  his  refined,  abstracted  look,  as  if  he  were 
preoccupied  on  higher  planes.  It  was  the  look  of  an  obsti- 
nate little  boy  who  poses  on  the  side  of  the  angels  —  or  so  the 
women  saw  it. 

Miss  Pinnegar  was  prepared  to  combat  him  now  by  sheer 
weight  of  opposition.  She  would  pitch  her  dead  negative 
will  obstinately  against  him.  She  would  not  speak  to  him, 
she  would  not  observe  his  presence,  she  was  stone  deaf  and 
stone  blind:  there  was  no  James.  This  nettled  him.  And 
she  miscalculated  him.  He  merely  took  another  circuit,  and 
rose  another  flight  higher  on  the  spiral  of  his  spiritual 
egotism.  He  believed  himself  finely  and  sacredly  in  the 
right,  that  he  was  frustrated  by  lower  beings,  above  whom 
it  was  his  duty  to  rise,  to  soar.  So  he  soared  to  serene 


68  THE  LOST  GIRL 

heights,  and  his  Private  Hotel  seemed  a  celestial  injunction, 
an  erection  on  a  higher  plane. 

He  saw  the  architect:  and  then,  with  his  plans  and  schemes, 
he  saw  the  builder  and  contractor.  The  builder  gave  an  es- 
timate of  six  or  seven  hundred  —  but  James  had  better  see 
the  plumber  and  fitter  who  was  going  to  instal  the  new  hot  water 
and  sanitary  system.  James  was  a  little  dashed.  He  had 
calculated  much  less.  Having  only  a  few  hundred  pounds 
in  possession  after  Throttle-Ha'penny,  he  was  prepared  to 
mortgage  Manchester  House  if  he  could  keep  in  hand  a  suf- 
ficent  sum  of  money  for  the  running  of  his  establishment  for 
a  year.  He  knew  he  would  have  to  sacrifice  Miss  Pinnegar's 
work-room.  He  knew,  and  he  feared  Miss  Pinnegar's  violent 
and  unmitigated  hostility.  Still  —  his  obstinate  spirit  rose  — 
he  was  quite  prepared  to  risk  everything  on  this  last  throw. 

Miss  Allsop,  daughter  of  the  builder,  called  to  see  Alvina. 
The  Allsops  were  great  Chapel  people,  and  Cassie  Allsop  was 
one  of  the  old  maids.  She  was  thin  and  nipped  and  wistful 
looking,  about  forty-two  years  old.  In  private,  she  was 
tyrannously  exacting  with  the  servants,  and  spiteful,  rather 
mean  with  her  motherless  nieces.  But  in  public  she  had  this 
nipped,  wistful  look. 

Alvina  was  surprised  by  this  visit.  When  she  found  Miss 
Allsop  at  the  back  door,  all  her  inherent  hostility  awoke. 

"  Oh,  is  it  you,  Miss  Allsop !     Will  you  come  in." 

They  sat  in  the  middle  room,  the  common  living  room  of 
the  house. 

"  I  called,"  said  Miss  Allsop,  coming  to  the  point  at  once, 
and  speaking  in  her  Sunday-school-teacher  voice,  "to  ask 
you  if  you  know  about  this  Private  Hotel  scheme  of  your 
father's?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Alvina. 

"  Oh,  you  do !  Well,  we  wondered.  Mr.  Houghton  came 
to  father  about  the  building  alterations  yesterday.  They'll 
be  awfully  expensive." 

"  Will  they?  "  said  Alvina,  making  big,  mocking  eyes. 

"  Yes,  very.     What  do  you  think  of  the  scheme?  " 

"I?— well— !"  Alvina  hesitated,  then  broke  into  a 
laugh.  "  To  tell  the  truth  I  haven't  thought  much  about  it 
at  all." 

"Well  I  think  you  should,"  said  Miss  Allsop  severely. 
"  Father's  sure  it  won't  pay  —  and  it  will  cost  I  don't  know 


THE  BEAU  69 

how  much.  It  is  bound  to  be  a  dead  loss.  And  your  father's 
getting  on.  You'll  be  left  stranded  in  the  world  without  a 
penny  to  bless  yourself  with.  I  think  it's  an  awful  outlook 
for  you." 

"Do  you?  "  said  Alvina. 

Here  she  was,  with  a  bang,  planked  upon  the  shelf  among 
the  old  maids. 

"Oh,  I  do.  Sincerely!  I  should  do  all  I  could  to  pre- 
vent him,  if  I  were  you." 

Miss  Allsop  took  her  departure.  Alvina  felt  herself  jolted 
in  her  mood.  An  old  maid  along  with  Cassie  Allsop!  — and 
James  Houghton  fooling  about  with  the  last  bit  of  money, 
mortgaging  Manchester  House  up  to  the  hilt.  Alvina  sank 
in  a  kind  of  weary  mortification,  in  which  her  peculiar 
obstinacy  persisted  devilishly  and  spitefully.  "  Oh  well,  so 
be  it,"  said  her  spirit  vindictively.  "Let  the  meagre,  mean, 
despicable  fate  fulfil  itself."  Her  old  anger  against  her 
father  arose  again. 

Arthur  Witham,  the  plumber,  came  in  with  James  Houghton 
to  examine  the  house.  Arthur  Witham  was  also  one  of  the 
Chapel  men  —  as  had  been  his  common,  interfering,  uned- 
ucated father  before  him.  The  father  had  left  each  of  his 
sons  a  fair  little  sum  of  money,  which  Arthur,  the  eldest, 
had  already  increased  ten-fold.  He  was  sly  and  slow  and 
uneducated  also,  and  spoke  with  a  broad  accent.  But  he 
was  not  bad-looking,  a  tight  fellow  with  big  blue  eyes,  who 
aspired  to  keep  his  "  h's "  in  the  right  place,  and  would 
have  been  a  gentleman  if  he  could. 

Against  her  usual  habit,  Alvina  joined  the  plumber  and 
her  father  in  the  scullery.  Arthur  Witham  saluted  her  with 
somcf-respect.  She  liked  his  blue  eyes  and  tight  figure.  He 
was  keen  and  sly  in  business,  very  watchful,  and  slow  to 
commit  himself.  Now  he  poked  and  peered  and  crept  under 
the  sink.  Alvina  watched  him  half  disappear  —  she  handed 
him  a  candle  —  and  she  laughed  to  herself  seeing  his  tight, 
well-shaped  hind-quarters  protruding  from  under  the  sink 
like  the  wrong  end  of  a  dog  from  a  kennel.  He  was  keen 
after  money,  was  Arthur  —  and  bossy,  creeping  slyly  after  his 
own  self-importance  and  power.  He  wanted  power  —  and  he 
would  creep  quietly  after  it  till  he  got  it:  as  much  as  he 
was  capable  of.  His  "  h's "  were  a  barbed-wire  fence  and 
entanglement,  preventing  his  unlimited  progress. 


70  THE  LOST  GIRL 

He  emerged  from  under  the  sink,  and  they  went  to  the 
kitchen  and  afterwards  upstairs.  Alvina  followed  them  per- 
sistently, but  a  little  aloof,  and  silent.  When  the  tour  of 
inspection  was  almost  over,  she  said  innocently: 

"Won't  it  cost  a  great  deal?  " 

Arthur  Witham  slowly  shook  his  head.  Then  he  looked  at 
her.  She  smiled  rather  archly  into  his  eyes. 

"  It  won't  be  done  for  nothing,"  he  said,  looking  at  her 
again. 

"We  can  go  into  that  later,"  said  James,  leading  off  the 
plumber. 

"  Good  morning,  Miss  Houghton,"  said  Arthur  Witham. 

"  Good  morning,  Mr.  Witham,"  replied  Alvina  brightly. 

But  she  lingered  in  the  background,  and  as  Arthur  Witham 
was  going  she  heard  him  say:  "Well,  I'll  work  it  out,  Mr. 
Houghton.  I'll  work  it  out,  and  let  you  know  tonight.  I'll 
get  the  figures  by  tonight." 

The  younger  man's  tone  was  a  little  off-hand,  just  a  little 
supercilious  with  her  father,  she  thought.  James's  star  was 
setting. 

In  the  afternoon,  directly  after  dinner,  Alvina  went  out. 
She  entered  the  shop,  where  sheets  of  lead  and  tins  of  paint 
and  putty  stood  about,  varied  by  sheets  of  glass  and  fancy 
paper.  Lottie  Witham,  Arthur's  wife,  appeared.  She  was 
a  woman  of  thirty-five,  a  bit  of  a  shrew,  with  social  ambitions 
and  no  children. 

"  Is  Mr.  Witham  in?  "  said  Alvina. 

Mrs.  Witham  eyed  her. 

"  I'll  see,"  she  answered,  and  she  left  the  shop. 

Prently  Arthur  entered,  in  his  shirt-sleeves:  rather  attrac- 
tive-looking. 

"  I  don't*  know  what  you'll  think  of  me,  and  what  I've 
come  for,"  said  Alvina,  with  hurried  amiability.  Arthur 
lifted  his  blue  eyes  to  her,  and  Mrs.  Witham  appeared  in  the 
background,  in  the  inner  doorway. 

"Why,  what  is  it?  "  said  Arthur  stolidly. 

"  Make  it  as  dear  as  you  can,  for  father,"  said  Alvina, 
laughing  nervously. 

Arthur's  blue  eyes  rested  on  her  face.  Mrs.  Witham  ad- 
vanced into  the  shop. 

"  Why?     What's  that  for?  "  asked  Lottie  Witham  shrewdly. 

Alvina  turned  to  the  woman. 


THE  BEAU  71 

"Don't  say  anything,"  she  said.  "But  we  don't  want 
father  to  go  on  with  this  scheme.  It's  bound  to  fail.  And 
Miss  Pinnegar  and  I  can't  have  anything  to  do  with  it  anyway. 
I  shall  go  away." 

"  It's  bound  to  fail,"  said  Arthur  Witham  stolidly. 

"  And  father  has  no  money,  I'm  sure,"  said  Alvina. 

Lottie  Witham  eyed  the  thin,  nervous  face  of  Alvina.  For 
some  reason,  she  liked  her.  And  of  course,  Alvina  was  con- 
sidered a  lady  in  Woodhouse.  That  was  what  it  had  come 
to,  with  James's  declining  fortunes:  she  was  merely  considered 
a  lady.  The  consideration  was  no  longer  indisputable. 

"  Shall  you  come  in  a  minute?  "  said  Lottie  Witham,  lift- 
ing the  flap  of  the  counter.  It  was  a  rare  and  bold  stroke 
on  Mrs.  Witham's  part.  Alvina's  immediate  instinct  was  to 
refuse.  But  she  liked  Arthur  Witham,  in  his  shirt  sleeves. 

"Well  —  I  must  be  back  in  a  minute,"  she  said,  as  she 
entered  the  embrasure  of  the  counter.  She  felt  as  if  she 
were  really  venturing  on  new  ground.  She  was  led  into  the 
new  drawing-room,  done  in  new  peacock-and-bronze  brocade 
furniture,  with  gilt  and  brass  and  white  walls.  This  was 
the  Withams'  new  house,  and  Lottie  was  proud  of  it.  The 
two  women  had  a  short  confidential  chat.  Arthur  lingered 
in  the  doorway  a  while,  then  went  away. 

Alvina  did  not  really  like  Lottie  Witham.  Yet  the  other 
woman  was  sharp  and  shrewd  in  the  uptake,  and  for  some 
reason  she  fancied  Alvina.  So  she  was  invited  to  tea  at 
Manchester  House. 

After  this,  so  many  difficulties  rose  up  in  James  Hough- 
ton's  way  that  he  was  worried  almost  out  of  his  life.  His  two 
women  left  him  alone.  Outside  difficulties  multiplied  on 
him  till  he  abandoned  his  scheme  —  he  was  simply  driven  out 
of  it  by  untoward  circumstances. 

Lottie  Witham  came  to  tea,  and  was  shown  over  Man- 
chester House.  She  had  no  opinion  at  all  of  Manchester 
House  —  wouldn't  hang  a  cat  in  such  a  gloomy  hole.  Still, 
she  was  rather  impressed  by  the  sense  of  superiority. 

"  Oh  my  goodness !  "  she  exclaimed  as  she  stood  in  Al- 
vina's bedroom,  and  looked  at  the  enormous  furniture,  the 
lofty  tableland  of  the  bed. 

"Oh  my  goodness!  I  wouldn't  sleep  in  that  for  a  trifle, 
by  myself!  Aren't  you  frightened  out  of  your  life?  Even 
if  I  had  Arthur  at  one  side  of  me,  I  should  be  that  frightened 


72  THE  LOST  GIRL 

on  the  other  side  I  shouldn't  know  what  to  do.  Do  you  sleep 
here  by  yourself?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Alvina  laughing.  "  I  haven't  got  an  Arthur, 
even  for  one  side." 

"  Oh,  my  word,  you'd  want  a  husband  on  both  sides,  in  that 
bed,"  said  Lottie  Witham. 

Alvina  was  asked  back  to  tea  —  on  Wednesday  afternoon, 
closing  day.  Arthur  was  there  to  tea  —  very  ill  at  ease  and 
feeling  as  if  his  hands  were  swollen.  Alvina  got  on  better 
with  his  wife,  who  watched  closely  to  learn  from  her  guest 
the  secret  of  repose.  The  indefinable  repose  and  inevita- 
bility of  a  lady  —  even  of  a  lady  who  is  nervous  and  agitated 
—  this  was  the  problem  which  occupied  Lottie's  shrewd  and 
active,  but  lower-class  mind.  She  even  did  not  resent  Al- 
vina's  laughing  attempts  to  draw  out  the  clumsy  Arthur: 
because  Alvina  was  a  lady,  and  her  tactics  must  be  studied. 

Alvina  really  liked  Arthur,  and  thought  a  good  deal  about 
him  —  heaven  knows  why.  He  and  Lottie  were  quite  happy 
together,  and  he  was  absorbed  in  his  petty  ambitions.  In 
his  limited  way,  he  was  invincibly  ambitious.  He  would  end 
by  making  a  sufficient  fortune,  and  by  being  a  town  councillor 
and  a  J.P.  But  beyond  Woodhouse  he  did  not  exist.  Why 
then  should  Alvina  be  attracted  by  him?  Perhaps  because  of 
his  "  closeness,"  and  his  secret  determinedness. 

When  she  met  him  in  the  street  she  would  stop  him  — 
though  he  was  always  busy  —  and  make  him  exchange  a  few 
words  with  her.  Aiid  when  she  had  tea  at  his  house,  she 
would  try  to  rouse  his  attention.  But  though  he  looked  at 
her,  steadily,  with  his  blue  eyes,  from  under  his  long  lashes, 
still,  she  knew,  he  looked  at  her  objectively.  He  never  con- 
ceived any  connection  with  her  whatsoever. 

It  was  Lottie  who  had  a  scheming  mind.  In  the  family  of 
three  brothers  there  was  one  —  not  black  sheep,  but  white, 
There  was  one  who  was  climbing  out,  to  be  a  gentleman. 
This  was  Albert,  the  second  brother.  He  had  been  a  school- 
teacher in  Woodhouse:  had  gone  out  to  South  Africa  and 
occupied  a  post  in  a  sort  of  Grammar  School  in  one  of  the 
cities  of  Cape  Colony.  He  had  accumulated  some  money,  to 
add  to  his  patrimony.  Now  he  was  in  England,  at  Oxford, 
where  he  would  take  his  belated  degree.  When  he  had  got 
his  degree,  he  would  return  to  South  Africa  to  become  head 
of  his  school,  at  seven  hundred  a  year. 


THE  BEAU  73 

Albert  was  thirty-two  years  old,  and  unmarried.  Lottie 
was  determined  he  should  take  back  to  the  Cape  a  suitable 
wife:  presumably  Alvina.  He  spent  his  vacations  in  Wood- 
house —  and  he  was  only  in  his  first  year  at  Oxford.  Well 
now,  what  could  be  more  suitable  —  a  young  man  at  Oxford, 
a  young  lady  in  Woodhouse.  Lottie  told  Alvina  all  about 
him,  and  Alvina  was  quite  excited  to  meet  him.  She  imag- 
ined him  a  taller,  more  fascinating,  educated  Arthur. 

For  the  fear  of  being  an  old  maid,  the  fear  of  her  own 
virginity  was  really  gaining  on  Alvina.  There  was  a  terrible 
sombre  futility,  nothingness,  in  Manchester  House.  She 
was  twenty-six  years  old.  Her  life  was  utterly  barren  now 
Miss  Frost  had  gone.  She  was  shabby  and  penniless,  a  mere 
household  drudge:  for  James  begrudged  even  a  girl  to  help 
in  the  kitchen.  She  was  looking  faded  and  worn.  Panic,  the 
terrible  and  deadly  panic  which  overcomes  so  many  unmar- 
ried women  at  about  the  age  of  thirty,  was  beginning  to  over- 
come her.  She  would  not  care  about  marriage,  if  even  she 
had  a  lover.  But  some  sort  of  terror  hunted  her  to  the  search 
of  a  lover.  She  would  become  loose,  she  would  become  a 
prostitute,  she  said  to  herself,  rather  than  die  off  like  Cassie 
Allsop  and  the  rest,  wither  slowly  and  ignominiously  and 
hideously  on  the  tree.  She  would  rather  kill  herself. 

But  it  needs  a  certain  natural  gift  to  become  a  loose  woman 
or  a  prostitute.  If  you  haven't  got  the  qualities  which  attract 
loose  men,  what  are  you  to  do?  Supposing  it  isn't  in  your 
nature  to  attract  loose  and  promiscuous  men !  Why,  then  you 
can't  be  a  prostitute,  if  you  try  your  head  off:  nor  even  a 
loose  woman.  Since  willing  won't  do  it.  It  requires  a  sec- 
ond party  to  come  to  an  agreement. 

Therefore  all  Alvina's  desperate  and  profligate  schemes  and 
ideas  fell  to  nought  before  the  inexorable  in  her  nature. 
And  the  inexorable  in  her  nature  was  highly  exclusive  and 
selective,  an  inevitable  negation  of  looseness  or  prostitution. 
Hence  men  were  afraid  of  her  —  of  her  power,  once  they  had 
committed  themselves.  She  would  involve  and  lead  a  man 
on,  she  would  destroy  him  rather  than  not  get  of  him  what 
she  wanted.  And  what  she  wanted  was  something  serious 
and  risky.  Not  mere  marriage  —  oh  dear  no!  But  a  pro- 
found and  dangerous  inter-relationship.  As  well  ask  the  pad- 
dlers  in  the  small  surf  of  passion  to  plunge  themselves  into 
the  heaving  gulf  of  mid-ocean.  Bah,  with  their  trousers 


74  THE  LOST  GIRL 

turned  up  to  their  knees  it  was  enough  for  them  to  wet  their 
toes  in  the  dangerous  sea.  They  were  having  nothing  to  do 
with  such  desperate  nereids  as  Alvina. 

She  had  cast  her  mind  on  Arthur.  Truly  ridiculous.  But 
there  was  something  compact  and  energetic  and  wilful  about 
him  that  she  magnified  tenfold  and  so  obtained,  imaginatively, 
an  attractive  lover.  She  brooded  her  days  shabbily  away  in 
Manchester  House,  busy  with  housework  drudgery.  Since  the 
collapse  of  Throttle-Ha'penny,  James  Houghton  had  become 
so  stingy  that  it  was  like  an  inflammation  in  him.  A  silver 
sixpence  had  a  pale  and  celestial  radiance  which  he  could  not 
forego,  a  nebulous  whiteness  which  made  him  feel  he  had 
heaven  in  his  hold.  How  then  could  he  let  it  go.  Even  a 
brown  penny  seemed  alive  and  pulsing  with  mysterious  blood, 
potent,  magical.  He  loved  the  flock  of  his  busy  pennies,  in 
the  shop,  as  if  they  had  been  divine  bees  bringing  him  sus- 
tenance from  the  infinite.  But  the  pennies  he  saw  dribbling 
away  in  household  expenses  troubled  him  acutely,  as  if  they 
were  live  things  leaving  his  fold.  It  was  a  constant  struggle 
to  get  from  him  enough  money  for  necessities. 

And  so  the  household  diet  became  meagre  in  the  extreme, 
the  coal  was  eked  out  inch  by  inch,  and  when  Alvina  must  have 
her  boots  mended  she  must  draw  on  her  own  little  stock  of 
money.  For  James  Houghton  had  the  impudence  to  make 
her  an  allowance  of  two  shillings  a  week.  She  was  very 
angry.  Yet  her  anger  was  of  that  dangerous,  half-ironical 
sort  which  wears  away  its  subject  and  has  no  outward  effect. 
A  feeling  of  half-bitter  mockery  kept  her  going.  In  the 
ponderous,  rather  sordid  nullity  of  Manchester  House  she  be- 
came shadowy  and  absorbed,  absorbed  in  nothing  in  particu- 
lar, yet  absorbed.  She  was  always  more  or  less  busy:  and 
certainly  there  was  always  something  to  be  done,  whether 
she  did  it  or  not. 

The  shop  was  opened  once  a  week,  on  Friday  evenings. 
James  Houghton  prowled  round  the  warehouses  in  Knar- 
borough  and  picked  up  job  lots  of  stuff,  with  which  he  re- 
plenished his  shabby  window.  But  his  heart  was  not  in  the 
business.  Mere  tenacity  made  him  hover  on  with  it. 

In  midsummer  Albert  Witham  came  to  Woodhouse,  and 
Alvina  was  invited  to  tea.  She  was  very  much  excited.  All 
the  time  imagining  Albert  a  taller,  finer  Arthur,  she  had  ab- 
stained from  actually  fixing  her  mind  upon  this  latter  little 


THE  BEAU  75 

man.  Picture  her  disappointment  when  she  found  Albert 
quite  unattractive.  He  was  tall  and  thin  and  brittle,  with  a 
pale,  rather  dry,  flattish  face,  and  with  curious  pale  eyes. 
His  impression  was  one  of  uncanny  flatness,  something  like  a 
lemon  sole.  Curiously  flat  and  fish-like  he  was,  one  might 
have  imagined  his  backbone  to  be  spread  like  the  backbone 
of  a  sole  or  a  plaice.  His  teeth  were  sound,  but  rather  large 
and  yellowish  and  flat.  A  most  curious  person. 

He  spoke  in  a  slightly  mouthing  way,  not  well  bred  in 
spite  of  Oxford.  There  was  a  distinct  Woodhouse  twang. 
He  would  never  be  a  gentleman  if  he  lived  for  ever.  Yet  he 
was  not  ordinary.  Really  an  odd  fish:  quite  interesting,  if 
one  could  get  over  the  feeling  that  one  was  looking  at  him 
through  the  glass  wall  of  an  aquarium:  that  most  horrifying 
of  all  boundaries  between  two  worlds.  In  an  aquarium  fish 
seem  to  come  smiling  broadly  to  the  doorway,  and  there  to 
stand  talking  to  one,  in  a  mouthing  fashion,  awful  to  be- 
hold. For  one  hears  no  sound  from  all  their  mouthing  and 
staring  conversation.  Now  although  Albert  Witham  had  a 
good  strong  voice,  which  rang  like  water  among  rocks  in  her 
ear,  still  she  seemed  never  to  hear  a  word  he  was  saying.  He 
smiled  down  at  her  and  fixed  her  and  swayed  his  head,  and 
said  quite  original  things,  really.  For  he  was  a  genuine  odd 
fish.  And  yet  she  seemed  to  hear  no  sound,  no  word  from 
him:  nothing  came  to  her.  Perhaps  as  a  matter  of  fact  fish 
do  actually  pronounce  streams  of  watery  words,  to  which  we, 
with  our  aerial-resonant  ears,  are  deaf  for  ever. 

The  odd  thing  was  that  this  odd  fish  seemed  from  the  very 
first  to  imagine  she  had  accepted  him  as  a  follower.  And 
he  was  quite  prepared  to  follow.  Nay,  from  the  very  first 
moment  he  was  smiling  on  her  with  a  sort  of  complacent 
delight  —  compassionate,  one  might  almost  say  —  as  if  there 
was  a  full  understanding  between  them.  If  only  she  could 
have  got  into  the  right  state  of  mind,  she  would  really  rather 
have  liked  him.  He  smiled  at  her,  and  said  really  interest- 
ing things  between  his  big  teeth.  There  was  something  rather 
nice  about  him.  But,  we  must  repeat,  it  was  as  if  the  glass 
wall  of  an  aquarium  divided  them. 

Alvina  looked  at  Arthur.  Arthur  was  short  and  dark- 
haired  and  nicely  coloured.  But,  now  his  brother  was  there, 
he  too  seemed  to  have  a  dumb,  aqueous  silence,  fish-like  and 
aloof,  about  him.  He  seemed  to  swim  like  a  fish  in  his  own 


76  THE  LOST  GIRL 

little  element.  Strange  it  all  was,  like  Alice  in  Wonderland. 
Alvina  understood  now  Lottie's  strained  sort  of  thinness,  a 
haggard,  sinewy,  sea-weedy  look.  The  poor  thing  was  all 
the  time  swimming  for  her  life. 

For  Alvina  it  was  a  most  curious  tea-party.  She  listened 
and  smiled  and  made  vague  answers  to  Albert,  who  leaned 
his  broad,  thin,  brittle  shoulders  towards  her.  Lottie  seemed 
rather  shadowily  to  preside.  But  it  was  Arthur  who  came 
out  into  communication.  And  now,  uttering  his  rather  broad- 
mouthed  speeches,  she  seemed  to  hear  in  him  a  quieter,  subtler 
edition  of  his  father.  His  father  had  been  a  little,  terrifically 
loud-voiced,  hard-skinned  man,  amazingly  uneducated  and 
amazingly  bullying,  who  had  tyrannized  for  many  years  over 
the  Sunday  School  children  during  morning  service.  He  had 
been  an  odd-looking  creature  with  round  grey  whiskers:  to 
Alvina,  always  a  creature,  never  a  man:  an  atrocious  lepre- 
caun  from  under  the  Chapel  floor.  And  how  he  used  to  dig 
the  children  in  the  back  with  his  horrible  iron  thumb,  if  the 
poor  things  happened  to  whisper  or  nod  in  chapel! 

These  were  his  children  —  most  curious  chips  of  the  old 
block.  Who  ever  would  have  believed  she  would  have  been 
taking  tea  with  them. 

"  Why  don't  you  have  a  bicycle,  and  go  out  on  it?  "  Arthur 
was  saying. 

"  But  I  can't  ride,"  said  Alvina. 

"You'd  learn  in  a  couple  of  lessons.  There's  nothing  in 
riding  a  bicycle." 

"  I  don't  believe  I  ever  should,"  laughed  Alvina. 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  you're  nervous?"  said  Arthur 
rudely  and  sneeringly. 

"  I  am,"  she  persisted. 

"  You  needn't  be  nervous  with  me,"  smiled  Albert  broadly, 


was 


with  his  odd,  genuine  gallantry.     "  I'll  hold  you  on." 

"  But  I  haven't  got  a  bicycle,"  said  Alvina,  feeling  she 
slowly  colouring  to  a  deep,  uneasy  blush. 

"You  can  have  mine  to  learn  on,"  said  Lottie.     "Albert 
will  look  after  it." 

"  There's  your  chance,"  said  Arthur  rudely.        Take  it  while 
you've  got  it." 

Now  Alvina  did  not  want  to  learn  to  ride  a  bicycle, 
two  Miss  Carlins,  two  more  old  maids,  had  made  themselves 


THE  BEAU  77 

ridiculous  for  ever  by  becoming  twin  cycle  fiends.  And  the 
horrible  energetic  strain  of  peddling  a  bicycle  over  miles  and 
miles  of  high-way  did  not  attract  Alvina  at  all.  She  was 
completely  indifferent  to  sight-seeing  and  scouring  about. 
She  liked  taking  a  walk,  in  her  lingering  indifferent  fashion. 
But  rushing  about  in  any  way  was  hateful  to  her.  And  then, 
to  be  taught  to  ride  a  bicycle  by  Albert  Witham!  Her  very 
soul  stood  still. 

"  Yes,"  said  Albert,  beaming  down  at  her  from  his  strange 
pale  eyes.  "  Come  om.  When  will  you  have  your  first  les- 
son? " 

"  Oh,"  cried  Alvina  in  confusion.  "  I  can't  promise.  I 
haven't  time,  really." 

"  Time !  "  exclaimed  Arthur  rudely.  "  But  what  do  you 
do  wi'  yourself  all  day?  " 

"  I  have  to  keep  house,"  she  said,  looking  at  him  archly. 

"House!  You  can  put  a  chain  round  its  neck,  and  tie  it 
up,"  he  retorted. 

Albert  laughed,  showing  all  his  teeth. 

"  I'm  sure  you  find  plenty  to  do,  with  everything  on  your 
hands,"  said  Lottie  to  Alvina. 

"I  do !  "  said  Alvina.  " By  evening  I'm  quite  tired  — 
though  you  mayn't  believe  it,  since  you  say  I  do  nothing," 
she  added,  laughing  confusedly  to  Arthur. 

But  he,  hard-headed  little  fortune-maker,  replied: 

"You  have  a  girl  to  help  you,  don't  you!  " 

Albert,  however,  was  beaming  at  her  sympathetically. 

"  You  have  too  much  to  do  indoors,"  he  said.  "  It  would 
do  you  good  to  get  a  bit  of  exercise  out  of  doors.  Come  down 
to  the  Coach  Road  tomorrow  afternoon,  and  let  me  give  you  a 
lesson.  Go  on " 

Now  the  coach-road  was  a  level  drive  between  beautiful 
park-like  grass-stretches,  down  in  the  valley.  It  was  a  de- 
lightful place  for  learning  to  ride  a  bicycle,  but  open  in  full 
view  of  all  the  world.  Alvina  would  have  died  of  shame. 
She  began  to  laugh  nervously  and  hurriedly  at  the  very  thought. 

"  No,  I  can't.     I  really  can't.     Thanks,  awfully,"  she  said. 

"Can't  you  really!"  said  Albert.  "Oh  well,  we'll  say 
another  day,  shall  we?  " 

"  When  I  feel  I  can,"  she  said. 

"Yes,  when  you  feel  like  it,"  replied  Albert. 


78  THE  LOST  GIRL 

"That's  more  it,"  said  Arthur.  "It's  not  the  time.  It's 
the  nervousness."  Again  Albert  beamed  at  her  sympathet- 
ically, and  said: 

"  Oh,  I'll  hold  you.     You  needn't  be  afraid." 
"But  I'm  not  afraid,"  she  said. 

"You  won't  say  you  are,"  interposed  Arthur.  "Women's 
faults  mustn't  be  owned  up  to." 

Alvina  was  beginning  to  feel  quite  dazed.  Their  mechan- 
ical, over-bearing  way  was  something  she  was  unaccustomed 
to.  It  was  like  the  jaws  of  a  pair  of  insentient  iron  pincers. 
She  rose,  saying  she  must  go. 

Albert  rose  also,  and  reached  for  his  straw  hat,  with  its 
coloured  band. 

"  I'll  stroll  up  with  you,  if  you  don't  mind,"  he  said. 
And  he  took  his  place  at  her  side  along  the  Knarborough 
Road,  where  everybody  turned  to  look.  For,  of  course,  he 
had  a  sort  of  fame  in  Woodhouse.  She  went  with  him 
laughing  and  chatting.  But  she  did  not  feel  at  all  comfort- 
able. He  seemed  so  pleased.  Only  he  was  not  pleased  with 
her.  He  was  pleased  with  himself  on  her  account:  inordi- 
nately pleased  with  himself.  In  his  world,  as  in  a  fish's, 
there  was  but  his  own  swimming  self:  and  if  he  chanced  to 
have  something  swimming  alongside  and  doing  him  credit, 
why,  so  much  the  more  complacently  he  smiled. 

He  walked  stiff  and  erect,  with  his  head  pressed  rather 
back,  so  that  he  always  seemed  to  be  advancing  from  the 
head  and  shoulders,  in  a  flat  kind  of  advance,  horizontal.  He 
did  not  seem  to  be  walking  with  his  whole  body.  His  man- 
ner was  oddly  gallant,  with  a  gallantry  that  completely 
missed  the  individual  in  the  woman,  circled  round  her  and 
flew  home  gratified  to  his  own  hive.  The  way  he  raised  his 
hat,  the  way  he  inclined  and  smiled  flatly,  even  rather  ex- 
citedly, as  he  talked,  was  all  a  little  discomforting  and 
comical. 

He  left  her  at  the  shop  door,  saying: 

"  I  shall  see  you  again,  I  hope." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  she  replied,  rattling  the  door  anxiously,  for 
it  was  locked.  She  heard  her  father's  step  at  last  tripping 
down  the  shop. 

"  Good-evening,  Mr.  Houghton,"  said  Albert  suavely  and 
with  a  certain  confidence,  as  James  peered  out. 


THE  BEAU  79 

"Oh,  good-evening!  "  said  James,  letting  Alvina  pass,  and 
shutting  the  door  in  Albert's  face. 

"Who  was  that?  "  he  asked  her  sharply. 

"  Albert  Witham,"  she  replied. 

"  What  has  he  got  to  do  with  you?  "  said  James  shrew- 
ishly. 

"  Nothing,  I  hope." 

She  fled  into  the  obscurity  of  Manchester  House,  out  of 
the  grey  summer  evening.  The  Withams  threw  her  off  her 
pivot,  and  made  her  feel  she  was  not  herself.  She  felt  she 
didn't  know,  she  couldn't  feel,  she  was  just  scattered  and 
decentralized.  And  she  was  rather  afraid  of  the  Witham 
brothers.  She  might  be  their  victim.  She  intended  to  avoid 
them. 

The  following  days  she  saw  Albert,  in  his  Norfolk  jacket 
and  flannel  trousers  and  his  straw  hat,  strolling  past  several 
times  and  looking  in  through  the  shop  door  and  up  at  the 
upper  windows.  But  she  hid  herself  thoroughly.  When  she 
went  out,  it  was  by  the  back  way.  So  she  avoided  him. 

But  on  Sunday  evening,  there  he  sat,  rather  stiff  and  brittle 
in  the  old  Withams'  pew,  his  head  pressed  a  little  back,  so 
that  his  face  and  neck  seemed  slightly  flattened.  He  wore 
very  low,  turn-down  starched  collars  that  showed  all  his 
neck.  And  he  kept  looking  up  at  her  during  the  service  — 
she  sat  in  the  choir-loft  —  gazing  up  at  her  with  apparently 
love-lorn  eyes  and  a  faint,  intimate  smile  —  the  sort  of  je- 
sais-tout  look  of  a  private  swain.  Arthur  also  occasionally 
cast  a  judicious  eye  on  her,  as  if  she  were  a  chimney  that 
needed  repairing,  and  he  must  estimate  the  cost,  and  whether 
it  was  worth  it. 

Sure  enough,  as  she  came  out  through  the  narrow  choir 
gate  into  Knarborough  Road,  there  was  Albert  stepping  for- 
ward like  a  policeman,  and  saluting  her  and  smiling  down 
on  her. 

"  I  don't  know  if  I'm  presuming "  he  said,  in  a  mock 

deferential  way  that  showed  he  didn't  imagine  he  could  pre- 
sume. 

"Oh,  not  at  all,"  said  Alvina  airily.  He  smiled  with 
assurance. 

"  You  haven't  got  any  engagement,  then,  for  this  evening?  " 
he  said. 


80  THE  LOST  GIRL 

"  No,"  she  replied  simply. 

"  We  might  take  a  walk,  what  do  you  think?  "  he  said, 
glancing  down  the  road  in  either  direction. 

What,  after  all,  was  she  to  think?  All  the  girls  were  pair- 
ing off  with  the  boys  for  the  after-chapel  stroll  and  spoon. 

"  I  don't  mind,"  she  said.  "  But  I  can't  go  far.  I've  got 
to  be  in  at  nine." 

"  Which  way  shall  we  go?  "  he  said. 

He  steered  off,  turned  downhill  through  the  common  gar- 
dens, and  proposed  to  take  her  the  not-very-original  walk  up 
Flint's  Lane,  and  along  the  railway  line  —  the  colliery  rail- 
way, that  is  —  then  back  up  the  Marlpool  Road:  a  sort  of 
circle.  She  agreed. 

They  did  not  find  a  great  deal  to  talk  about.  She  ques- 
tioned him  about  his  plans,  and  about  the  Cape.  But  save 
for  bare  outlines,  which  he  gave  readily  enough,  he  was  rather 
close. 

"  What  do  you  do  on  Sunday  nights  as  a  rule?  "  he  asked 
her. 

"  Oh,  I  have  a  walk  with  Lucy  Grainger  —  or  I  go  down 
to  Hallam's  —  or  go  home,"  she  answered. 

"You  don't  go  walks  with  the  fellows,  then?  " 

"  Father  would  never  have  it,"  she  replied. 

"  What  will  he  say  now?  "  he  asked,  with  self-satisfaction. 

"Goodness  knows!  "  she  laughed. 

"  Goodness  usually  does,"  he  answered  archly. 

When  they  came  to  the  rather  stumbly  railway,  he  said: 

"  Won't  you  take  my  arm? " —  offering  her  the  said 
member. 

"  Oh,  I'm  all  right,"  she  said.     "  Thanks," 

"  Go  on,"  he  said,  pressing  a  little  nearer  to  her,  and  offer- 
ing his  arm.  "  There's  nothing  against  it,  is  there?  " 

"  Oh,  it's  not  that,"  she  said. 

And  feeling  in  a  false  position,  she  took  his  arm,  rather 
unwillingly.  He  drew  a  little  nearer  to  her,  and  walked  with 
a  slight  prance. 

"  We  get  on  better,  don't  we?  "  he  said,  giving  her  hand 
the  tiniest  squeeze  with  his  arm  against  his  side. 

"  Much !  "  she  replied,  with  a  laugh. 

Then  he  lowered  his  voice  oddly. 

"It's  many  a  day  since  I  was  on  this  railroad,"  he  said. 


THE  BEAU  81 

"  Is  this  one  of  your  old  walks?  "  she  asked,  malicious.. 

"Yes,  I've  been  it  once  or  twice  —  with  girls  that  are  all 
married  now." 

"  Didn't  you  want  to  marry?  "  she  asked. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  I  may  have  done.  But  it  never  came 
off,  somehow.  I've  sometimes  thought  it  never  would  come 
off." 

"Why?" 

"  I  don't  know,  exactly.  It  didn't  seem  to,  you  know.  Per- 
haps neither  of  us  was  properly  inclined." 

"  I  should  think  so,"  she  said. 

"  And  yet,"  he  admitted  slyly,  "  I  should  like  to  marry  — " 
To  this  she  did  not  answer. 

"Shouldn't  you?"  he  continued. 

"  When  I  meet  the  right  man,"  she  laughed. 

"That's  it,"  he  said.  "There,  that's  just  it!  And  you 
haven  t  met  him?  "  His  voice  seemed  smiling  with  a  sort  of 
triumph,  as  if  he  had  caught  her  out. 

"Well  —  once  I  thought  I  had  —  when  I  was  engaged  to 
Alexander." 

"But  you  found  you  were  mistaken?  "  he  insisted. 

"  No.     Mother  was  so  ill  at  the  time  — " 

"There's  always  something  to  consider,"  he  said. 

She  kept  on  wondering  what  she  should  do  if  he  wanted 
to  kiss  her.  The  mere  incongruity  of  such  a  desire  on  his 
part  formed  a  problem.  Luckily,  for  this  evening  he  formu- 
lated no  desire,  but  left  her  in  the  shop-door  soon  after  nine, 
with  the  request: 

"  I  shall  see  you  in  the  week,  shan't  I?  " 

"  I'm  not  sure.  I  can't  promise  now,"  she  said  hurriedy. 
"  Good-night." 

What  she  felt  chiefly  about  him  was  a  decentralized  per- 
plexity, very  much  akin  to  no  feeling  at  all. 

"Who  do  you  think  took  me  for  a  walk,  Miss  Pinnegar?  " 
she  said,  laughing,  to  her  confidante. 

"  I  can't  imagine,"  replied  Miss  Pinnegar,  eyeing  her. 

"You  never  would  imagine,"  said  Alvina.  "Albert 
Witham." 

"Albert  Witham!"  exclaimed  Miss  Pinnegar,  standing 
quite  motionless. 

"  It  may  well  take  your  breath  away,"  said  Alvina. 


82  THE  LOST  GIRL 

"  No,  it's  not  that !  "  hurriedly  expostulated  Miss  Pinnegar. 
"Well—  !  Well,  I  declare!—"  and  then,  on  a  new  note: 
"  Well,  he's  very  eligible,  I  think." 

"Most  eligible!  "  replied  Alvina. 

"  Yes,  he  is,"  insisted  Miss  Pinnegar.  "  I  think  it's  very 
good." 

"  What's  very  good  ?  "  asked  Alvina. 

Miss  Pinnegar  hesitated.  She  looked  at  Alvina.  She  re- 
considered. 

"  Of  course  he's  not  the  man  I  should  have  imagined  for 
you,  but — " 

"You  think  he'll  do?  "  said  Alvina. 

"Why  not?  "  said  Miss  Pinnegar.  "Why  shouldn't  he  do 
— if  you  like  him." 

"  Ah  —  !  "  cried  Alvina,  sinking  on  the  sofa  with  a  laugh. 
"That's  it." 

"  Of  course  you  couldn't  have  anything  to  do  with  him  if 
you  don't  care  for  him,"  pronounced  Miss  Pinnegar. 

Albert  continued  to  hang  around.  He  did  not  make  any 
direct  attack  for  a  few  days.  Suddenly  one  evening  he  ap- 
peared at  the  back  door  with  a  bunch  of  white  stocks  in  his 
hand.  His  face  lit  up  with  a  sudden,  odd  smile  when  she 
opened  the  door  —  a  broad,  pale-gleaming,  remarkable  smile. 

"  Lottie  wanted  to  know  if  you'd  come  to  tea  tomorrow,"  he 
said  straight  out,  looking  at  her  with  the  pale  light  in  his 
eyes,  that  smiled  palely  right  into  her  eyes,  but  did  not  see 
her  at  all.  He  was  waiting  on  the  doorstep  to  come  in. 

"Will  you  come  in?  "  said  Alvina.     "Father  is  in." 

"Yes,  I  don't  mind,"  he  said,  pleased.  He  mounted  the 
steps,  still  holding  his  bunch  of  white  stocks. 

James  Houghton  screwed  round  in  his  chair  and  peered 
over  his  spectacles  to  see  who  was  coming. 

"  Father,"  said  Alvina,  "  you  know  Mr.  Witham,  don't 
you?  " 

James  Houghton  half  rose.  He  still  peered  over  his  glasses 
at  the  intruder. 

«  Well  —  I  do  by  sight.     How  do  you  do?  " 

He  held  out  his  frail  hand. 

Albert  held  back,  with  the  flowers  in  his  own  hand,  and 
giving  his  broad,  pleased,  pale-gleaming  smile  from  father  to 
daughter,  he  said: 


THE  BEAU  83 

"What  am  I  to  do  with  these?  Will  you  accept  them, 
Miss  Houghton?  "  He  stared  at  her  with  shining,  pallid  smil- 
ing eyes. 

"Are  they  for  me?"  she  said,  with  false  brightness. 
"Thank  you." 

James  Houghton  looked  over  the  top  of  his  spectacles, 
searchingly,  at  the  flowers,  as  if  they  had  been  a  bunch  of 
white  and  sharp-toothed  ferrets.  Then  he  looked  as  sus- 
piciously at  the  hand  which  Albert  at  last  extended  to  him. 
He  shook  it  slightly,  and  said: 

"Take  a  seat." 

"I'm  afraid  I'm  disturbing  you  in  your  reading,"  said 
Albert,  still  having  the  drawn,  excited  smile  on  his  face. 

"Well—"  said  James  Houghton.     "The  light  is  fading." 

Alvina  came  in  with  the  flowers  in  a  jar.  She  set  them 
on  the  table. 

"Haven't  they  a  lovely  scent?  "  she  said. 

"Do  you  think  so?"  he  replied,  again  with  the  excited 
smile.  There  was  a  pause.  Albert,  rather  embarrassed, 
reached  forward,  saying: 

"May  I  see  what  you're  reading!  "  And  he  turned  over 
the  book.  "'Tommy  and  Grizel!  '  Oh  yes!  What  do  you 
think  of  it?  " 

"  Well,"  said  James,  "  I  am  only  in  the  beginning." 

"  I  think  it's  interesting,  myself,"  said  Albert,  "  as  a  study 
of  a  man  who  can't  get  away  from  himself.  You  meet  a  lot 
of  people  like  that.  What  I  wonder  is  why  they  find  it  such 
a  drawback." 

"  Find  what  a  drawback?  "  asked  James. 

"  Not  being  able  to  get  away  from  themselves.  That  self- 
consciousness.  It  hampers  them,  and  interferes  with  their 
power  of  action.  Now  I  wonder  why  self -consciousness  should 
hinder  a  man  in  his  action?  Why  does  it  cause  misgiving?  I 
think  I'm  self-conscious,  but  I  don't  think  I  have  so  many 
misgivings.  I  don't  see  that  they're  necessary." 

"  Certainly  I  think  Tommy  is  a  weak  character.  I  believe 
he's  a  despicable  character,"  said  James. 

"  No,  I  don't  know  so  much  about  that,"  said  Albert.  "  I 
shouldn't  say  weak,  exactly.  He's  only  weak  in  one  direc- 
tion. No,  what  I  wonder  is  why  he  feels  guilty.  If  you  feel 
self-conscious,  there's  no  need  to  feel  guilty  about  it,  is  there?  " 

He  stared  with  his  strange,  smiling  stare  at  James. 


84  THE  LOST  GIRL 

"  I  shouldn't  say  so,"  replied  James.  "  But  if  a  man  never 
knows  his  own  mind,  he  certainly  can't  be  much  of  a  man." 

"  I  don't  see  it,"  replied  Albert.  "  What's  the  matter  is  that 
he  feels  guilty  for  not  knowing  his  own  mind.  That's  the 
unnecessary  part.  The  guilty  feeling — " 

Albert  seemed  insistent  on  this  point,  which  had  no  par- 
ticular interest  for  James. 

"  Where  we've  got  to  make  a  change,"  said  Albert,  "  is  in 
the  feeling  that  other  people  have  a  right  to  tell  us  what  we 
ought  to  feel  and  do.  Nobody  knows  what  another  man 
ought  to  feel.  Every  man  has  his  own  special  feelings,  and 
his  own  right  to  them.  That's  where  it  is  with  education. 
You  ought  not  to  want  all  your  children  to  feel  alike.  Their 
natures  are  all  different,  and  so  they  should  all  feel  different, 
about  practically  everything." 

"There  would  be  no  end  to  the  confusion,"  said  James. 

"  There  needn't  be  any  confusion  to  speak  of.  You  agree 
to  a  number  of  rules  and  conventions  and  laws,  for  social 
purposes.  But  in  private  you  feel  just  as  you  do  feel,  with- 
out occasion  for  trying  to  feel  something  else." 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  James.  "  There  are  certain  feelings 
common  to  humanity,  such  as  love,  and  honour,  and  truth." 

"Would  you  call  them  feelings?  "  said  Albert.  "  I  should 
say  what  is  common  is  the  idea.  The  idea  is  common  to  hu- 
manity, once  you've  put  it  into  words.  But  the  feeling  varies 
with  every  man.  The  same  idea  represents  a  different  kind 
of  feeling  in  every  different  individual.  It  seems  to  me  that's 
what  we've  got  to  recognize  if  we're  going  to  do  anything 
with  education.  We  don't  want  to  produce  mass  feelings. 
Don't  you  agree?  " 

Poor  James  was  too  bewildered  to  know  whether  to  agree 
or  not  to  agree. 

"  Shall  we  have  a  light,  Alvina?  "  he  said  to  his  daughter. 

Alvina  lit  the  incandescent  gas-jet  that  hung  in  the  middle 
of  the  room.  The  hard  white  light  showed  her  somewhat 
haggard-looking  as  she  reached  up  to  it.  But  Albert  watched 
her,  smiling  abstractedly.  It  seemed  as  if  his  words  came 
off  him  without  affecting  him  at  all.  He  did  not  think  about 
what  he  was  feeling,  and  he  did  not  feel  what  he  was  thinking 
about.  And  therefore  she  hardly  heard  what  he  said.  Yet 
she  believed  he  was  clever. 

It  was  evident  Albert  was  quite  blissfully  happy,  in  his 


THE  BEAU  85 

own  way,  sitting  there  at  the  end  of  the  sofa  not  far  from 
the  fire,  and  talking  animatedly.  The  uncomfortable  thing 
was  that  though  he  talked  in  the  direction  of  his  interlocutor, 
he  did  not  speak  to  him:  merely  said  his  words  towards  him. 
James,  however,  was  such  an  airy  feather  himself  he  did  not 
remark  this,  but  only  felt  a  little  self-important  at  sustaining 
such  a  subtle  conversation  with  a  man  from  Oxford.  Alvina, 
who  never  expected  to  be  interested  in  clever  conversations, 
after  a  long  experience  of  her  father,  found  her  expectation 
justified  again.  She  was  not  interested. 

The  man  was  quite  nicely  dressed,  in  the  regulation  tweed 
jacket  and  flannel  trousers  and  brown  shoes.  He  was  even 
rather  smart,  judging  from  his  yellow  socks  and  yellow-and- 
brown  tie.  Miss  Pinnegar  eyed  him  with  approval  when  she 
came  in. 

"Good-evening!"  she  said,  just  a  trifle  condescendingly, 
as  she  shook  hands.  "How  do  you  find  Woodhouse,  after 
being  away  so  long?  "  Her  way  of  speaking  was  so  quiet,  as 
if  she  hardly  spoke  aloud. 

"  Well,"  he  answered.     "  I  find  it  the  same  in  many  ways." 

"You  wouldn't  like  to  settle  here  again?  " 

"  I  don't  think  I  should.  It  feels  a  little  cramped,  you 
know,  after  a  new  country.  But  it  has  its  attractions."  Here 
he  smiled  meaningful. 

"  Yes,"  said  Miss  Pinnegar.  "  I  suppose  the  old  connections 
count  for  something." 

"  They  do.  Oh  decidedly  they  do.  There's  no  associations 
like  the  old  ones."  He  smiled  flatly  as  he  looked  towards 
Alvina. 

"You  find  it  so,  do  you!  "  returned  Miss  Pinnegar.  "You 
don't  find  that  the  new  connections  make  up  for  the  old?  " 

"Not  altogether,  they  don't.  There's  something  miss- 
ing  "  Again  he  looked  towards  Alvina.  But  she  did 

not  answer  his  look. 

"Well,"  said  Miss  Pinnegar.  "I'm  glad  we  still  count 
for  something,  in  spite  of  the  greater  attractions.  How  long 
have  you  in  England?  " 

"Another  year.  Just  a  year.  This  time  next  year  I  ex- 
pect I  shall  be  sailing  back  to  the  Cape."  He  smiled  as  if 
in  anticipation.  Yet  it  was  hard  to  believe  that  it  mattered 
to  him  —  or  that  anything  mattered. 

"And  is  Oxford  agreeable  to  you?  "  she  asked. 


86  THE  LOST  GIRL 

"Oh,  yes.     I  keep  myself  busy." 

"What  are  your  subjects?  "  asked  James. 

"English  and  History.  But  I  do  mental  science  for  my 
own  interest." 

Alvina  had  taken  up  a  piece  of  sewing.  She  sat  under  the 
light,  brooding  a  little.  What  had  all  this  to  do  with  her. 
The  man  talked  on,  and  beamed  in  her  direction.  And  she 
felt  a  little  important.  But  moved  or  touched? — not  the 
least  in  the  world. 

She  wondered  if  any  one  would  ask  him  to  supper  —  bread 
and  cheese  and  currant-loaf,  and  water,  was  all  that  offered. 
No  one  asked  him,  and  at  last  he  rose. 

"  Show  Mr.  Witham  out  through  the  shop,  Alvina,"  said 
Miss  Pinnegar. 

Alvina  piloted  the  man  through  the  long,  dark,  encumbered 
way  of  the  shop.  At  the  door  he  said: 

"  You've  never  said  whether  you're  coming  to  tea  on  Thurs- 
day." 

"  I  don't  think  I  can,"  said  Alvina. 

He  seemed  rather  taken  aback. 

"  Why?  "  he  said.     "  What  stops  you?  " 

"  I've  so  much  to  do." 

He  smiled  slowly  and  satirically. 

"Won't  it  keep?"  he  said. 

"No,  really.  I  can't  come  on  Thursday  —  thank  you  so 
much.  Good-night!  "  She  gave  him  her  hand  and  turned 
quickly  into  the  shop,  closing  the  door.  He  remained  stand- 
ing in  the  porch,  staring  at  the  closed  door.  Then,  lifting 
his  lip,  he  turned  away. 

"  Well,"  said  Miss  Pinnegar  decidedly,  as  Alvina  re- 
entered.  "  You  can  say  what  you  like  —  but  I  think  he's 
very  pleasant,  very  pleasant." 

"Extremely  intelligent,"  said  James  Houghton,  shifting  in 
his  chair. 

"  I  was  awfully  bored,"  said  Alvina. 

They  both  looked  at  her,  irritated. 

After  this  she  really  did  what  she  could  to  avoid  him. 
When  she  saw  him  sauntering  down  the  street  in  ail  his  leisure, 
a  sort  of  anger  possessed  her.  On  Sunday,  she  slipped  down 
from  the  choir  into  the  Chapel,  and  out  through  the  main 
entrance,  whilst  he  awaited  her  at  the  small  exit.  And  by 
good  luck,  when  he  called  one  evening  in  the  week,  she  was 


THE  BEAU  87 

out.  She  returned  down  the  yard.  And  there,  through  the 
uncurtained  window,  she  saw  him  sitting  awaiting  her.  With- 
out a  thought,  she  turned  on  her  heel  and  fled  away.  She  did 
not  come  in  till  he  had  gone. 

"How  late  you  are!  "  said  Miss  Pinnegar.  "Mr.  Witham 
was  here  till  ten  minutes  ago." 

"  Yes,"  laughed  Alvina.  "  I  came  down  the  yard  and  saw 
him.  So  I  went  back  till  he'd  gone." 

Miss  Pinnegar  looked  at  her  in  displeasure: 

"  I  suppose  you  know  your  own  mind,"  she  said. 

"  How  do  you  explain  such  behaviour?  "  said  her  father 
pettishly. 

"  I  didn't  want  to  meet  him,"  she  said. 

The  next  evening  was  Saturday.  Alvina  had  inherited  Miss 
Frost's  task  of  attending  to  the  Chapel  flowers  once  a  quarter. 
She  had  been  round  the  gardens  of  her  friends,  and  gathered 
the  scarlet  and  hot  yellow  and  purple  flowers  of  August, 
asters,  red  stocks,  tall  Japanese  sunflowers,  coreopsis,  gera- 
niums. With  these  in  her  basket  she  slipped  out  towards 
evening,  to  the  Chapel.  She  knew  Mr.  Calladine,  the  care- 
taker would  not  lock  up  till  she  had  been. 

The  moment  she  got  inside  the  Chapel it  was  a  big,  airy, 

pleasant  building  —  she  heard  hammering  from  the  organ- 
loft,  and  saw  the  flicker  of  a  candle.  Some  workman  busy 
before  Sunday.  She  shut  the  baize  door  behind  her,  and 
hurried  across  to  the  vestry,  for  vases,  then  out  to  the  tap, 
for  water.  All  was  warm  and  still. 

It  was  full  early  evening.  The  yellow  light  streamed 
through  the  side  windows,  the  big  stained-glass  window  at 
the  end  was  deep  and  full  of  glowing  colour,  in  which  the 
yellows  and  reds  were  richest.  Above  in  the  organ-loft  the 
hammering  continued.  She  arranged  her  flowers  in  many 
vases,  till  the  communion  table  was  like  the  window,  a  tangle 
of  strong  yellow,  and  crimson,  and  purple,  and  bronze-green. 
She  tried  to  keep  the  effect  light  and  kaleidoscopic,  an  inter- 
play of  tossed  pieces  of  strong,  hot  colour,  vibrating  and 
lightly  intermingled.  It  was  very  gorgeous,  for  a  communion 
table.  But  the  day  of  white  lilies  was  over. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  terrific  crash  and  bang  and  tumble, 
up  in  the  organ-loft,  followed  by  a  cursing. 

"  Are  you  hurt?  "  called  Alvina,  looking  up  into  space. 
The  candle  had  disappeared. 


88  THE  LOST  GIRL 

But  there  was  no  reply.  Feeling  curious,  she  went  out  of 
the  Chapel  to  the  stairs  in  the  side  porch,  and  ran  up  to  the 
organ.  She  went  round  the  side  —  and  there  she  saw  a  man 
in  his  shirt-sleeves  sitting  crouched  in  the  obscurity  on  the 
floor  between  the  organ  and  the  wall  of  the  back,  while  a 
collapsed  pair  of  steps  lay  between  her  and  him.  It  was  too 
dark  to  see  who  it  was. 

"That  rotten  pair  of  steps  came  down  with  me,"  said  the 
infuriated  voice  of  Arthur  Witham,  "  and  about  broke  my 
leg." 

Alvina  advanced  towards  him,  picking  her  way  over  the 
steps.  He  was  sitting  nursing  his  leg. 

"  Is  it  bad?  "  she  asked,  stooping  towards  him. 

In  the  shadow  he  lifted  up  his  face.  It  was  pale,  and  his 
eyes  were  savage  with  anger.  Her  face  was  near  his. 

"  It  is  bad,"  he  said  furious  because  of  the  shock.  The 
shock  had  thrown  him  off  his  balance. 

"  Let  me  see,"  she  said. 

He  removed  his  hands  from  clasping  his  shin,  some  dis- 
tance above  the  ankle.  She  put  her  ringers  over  the  bone, 
over  his  stocking,  to  feel  if  there  was  any  fracture.  Imme- 
diately her  fingers  were  wet  with  blood.  Then  he  did  a 
curious  thing.  With  both  his  hands  he  pressed  her  hand 
down  over  his  wounded  leg,  pressed  it  with  all  his  might,  as 
if  her  hand  were  a  plaster.  For  some  moments  he  sat  press- 
ing her  hand  over  his  broken  shin,  completely  oblivious,  as 
some  people  are  when  they  have  had  a  shock  and  a  hurt, 
intense  on  one  point  of  consciousness  only,  and  for  the  rest 
unconscious. 

Then  he  began  to  come  to  himself.  The  pain  modified 
itself.  He  could  not  bear  the  sudden  acute  hurt  to  his  shin. 
That  was  one  of  his  sensitive,  unbearable  parts. 

"The  bone  isn't  broken,"  she  said  professionally.  "But 
you'd  better  get  the  stocking  out  of  it." 

Without  a  thought,  he  pulled  his  trouser-leg  higher  and 
rolled  down  his  stocking,  extremely  gingerly,  and  sick  with 
pain. 

"  Can  you  show  a  light?  "  he  said. 

She  found  the  candle.  And  she  knew  where  matches 
always  rested,  on  a  little  ledge  of  the  organ.  So  she  brought 
him  a  light,  whilst  he  examined  his  broken  shin.  The  blood 
was  flowing,  but  not  so  much.  It  was  a  nasty  cut  bruise, 


THE  BEAU  89 

swelling  and  looking  very  painful.  He  sat  looking  at  it 
absorbedly,  bent  over  it  in  the  candle-light. 

"It's  not  so  very  bad,  when  the  pain  goes  off,"  she  said, 
noticing  the  black  hairs  of  his  shin.  "  We'd  better  tie  it  up. 
Have  you  got  a  handkerchief?  " 

"  It's  in  my  jacket,"  he  said. 

She  looked  round  for  his  jacket.  He  annoyed  her  a  little, 
by  being  completely  oblivious  of  her.  She  got  his  handker- 
chief and  wiped  her  fingers  on  it.  Then  of  her  own  kerchief 
she  made  a  pad  for  the  wound. 

"  Shall  I  tie  it  up,  then?  "  she  said. 

But  he  did  not  answer.  He  sat  still  nursing  his  leg,  look- 
ing at  his  hurt,  while  the  blood  slowly  trickled  down  the  wet 
hairs  towards  his  ankle.  There  was  nothing  to  do  but  wait 
for  him. 

"Shall  I  tie  it  up,  then?  "  she  repeated  at  length,  a  little 
impatient.  So  he  put  his  leg  a  little  forward. 

She  looked  at  the  wound,  and  wiped  it  a  little.  Then  she 
folded  the  pad  of  her  own  handkerchief,  and  laid  it  over  the 
hurt.  And  again  he  did  the  same  thing,  he  took  her  hand 
as  if  it  were  a  plaster,  and  applied  it  to  his  wound,  pressing 
it  cautiously  but  firmly  down.  She  was  rather  angry.  He 
took  no  notice  of  her  at  all.  And  she,  waiting,  seemed  to  go 
into  a  dream,  a  sleep,  her  arm  trembled  a  little,  stretched 
out  and  fixed.  She  seemed  to  lose  count,  under  the  firm  com- 
pression he  imposed  on  her.  It  was  as  if  the  pressure  on  her 
hand  pressed  her  into  oblivion. 

"  Tie  it  up,"  he  said  briskly. 

And  she,  obedient,  began  to  tie  the  bandage  with  numb 
fingers.  He  seemed  to  have  taken  the  use  out  of  her. 

When  she  had  finished,  he  scrambled  to  his  feet,  looked  at 
the  organ  which  he  was  repairing,  and  looked  at  the  collapsed 
pair  of  steps. 

"A  rotten  pair  of  things  to  have,  to  put  a  man's  life  in 
danger,"  he  said,  towards  the  steps.  Then  stubbornly,  he 
rigged  them  up  again,  and  stared  again  at  his  interrupted 
job. 

"  You  won't  go  on,  will  you  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  It's  got  to  be  done,  Sunday  tomorrow,"  he  said.  "  If 
you'd  hold  them  steps  a  minute!  There  isn't  more  than  a 
minute's  fixing  to  do.  It's  all  done,  but  fixing." 

"Hadn't  you  better  leave  it,"  she  said. 


90  THE  LOST  GIRL 

"Would  you  mind  holding  the  steps,  so  that  they  don't 
let  me  down  again,"  he  said.  Then  he  took  the  candle,  and 
hobbled  stubbornly  and  angrily  up  again,  with  spanner  and 
hammer.  For  some  minutes  he  worked,  tapping  and  readjust- 
ing, whilst  she  held  the  ricketty  steps  and  stared  at  him  from 
below,  the  shapeless  bulk  of  his  trousers.  Strange  the  dif- 
ference—  she  could  not  help  thinking  it  —  between  the  vul- 
nerable hairy,  and  somehow  childish  leg  of  the  real  man,  and 
the  shapeless  form  of  these  workmen's  trousers.  The  kernel, 
the  man  himself  —  seemed  so  tender  —  the  covering  so  stiff 
and  insentient. 

And  was  he  not  going  to  speak  to  her  —  not  one  human 
word  of  recognition?  Men  are  the  most  curious  and  unreal 
creatures.  After  all  he  had  made  use  of  her.  Think  how  he 
had  pressed  her  hand  gently  but  firmly  down,  down  over 
his  bruise,  how  he  had  taken  the  virtue  out  of  her,  till  she 
felt  all  weak  and  dim.  And  after  that  was  he  going  to  re- 
lapse into  his  tough  and  ugly  workman's  hide,  and  treat  her 
as  if  she  were  a  pair  of  steps,  which  might  let  him  down  or 
hold  him  up,  as  might  be. 

As  she  stood  clinging  to  the  steps  she  felt  weak  and  a  little 
hysterical.  She  wanted  to  summon  her  strength,  to  have  her 
own  back  from  him.  After  all  he  had  taken  the  virtue  from 
her,  he  might  have  the  grace  to  say  thank  you,  and  treat  her 
as  if  she  were  a  human  being. 

At  last  he  left  off  tinkering,  and  looked  round. 

"Have  you  finished?  "  she  said. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered  crossly. 

And  taking  the  candle  he  began  to  clamber  down.  When 
he  got  to  the  bottom  he  crouched  over  his  leg  and  felt  the 
bandage. 

"  That  gives  you  what  for,"  he  said,  as  if  it  were  her  fault. 

"  Is  the  bandage  holding?  "  she  said. 

"  I  think  so,"  he  answered  churlishly. 

"  Aren't  you  going  to  make  sure?  "  she  said. 

"  Oh,  it's  all  right,"  he  said,  turning  aside  and  taking  up 
his  tools.  "  I'll  make  my  way  home." 

"  So  will  I,"  she  answered. 

She  took  the  candle  and  went  a  little  in  front.  He  hurried 
into  his  coat  and  gathered  his  tools,  anxious  to  get  away. 
She  faced  him,  holding  the  candle. 

"Look   at   my   hand,"    she   said,   holding   it    out.     It    was 


THE  BEAU  91 

smeared  with  blood,  as  was  the  cuff  of  her  dress  —  a  black- 
and-white  striped  cotton  dress. 

"Is  it  hurt?  "he  said. 

"  No,  but  look  at  it.  Look  here!  "  She  showed  the  blood- 
stains on  her  dress. 

"  It'll  wash  out,"  he  said,  frightened  of  her. 

"Yes,  so  it  will.  But  for  the  present  it's  there.  Don't 
you  think  you  ought  to  thank  me?  " 

He  recoiled  a  little. 

"  Yes,"  he  said.     "  I'm  very  much  obliged." 

"You  ought  to  be  more  than  that,"  she  said. 

He  did  not  answer,  but  looked  her  up  and  down. 

"We'll  be  going  down,"  he  said.  "We  s'll  have  folks 
talking." 

Suddenly  she  began  to  laugh.  It  seemed  so  comical. 
What  a  position!  The  candle  shook  as  she  laughed.  What 
a  man,  answering  her  like  a  little  automaton!  Seriously, 
quite  seriously  he  said  it  to  her — "We  s'll  have  folks  talk- 
ing! "  She  laughed  in  a  breathless,  hurried  way,  as  they 
tramped  downstairs. 

At  the  bottom  of  the  stairs  Calladine,  the  caretaker,  met 
them.  He  was  a  tall  thin  man  with  a  black  moustache  — 
about  fifty  years  old. 

"  Have  you  done  for  tonight,  all  of  you?  "  he  said,  grin- 
ning in  echo  to  Alvina's  still  fluttering  laughter. 

"  That's  a  nice  rotten  pair  of  steps  you've  got  up  there 
for  a  death-trap,"  said  Arthur  angrily.  "  Come  down  on  top 
of  me,  and  I'm  lucky  I  haven't  got  my  leg  broken.  It  is  near 
enough.' 

"Come  down  with  you,  did  they?"  said  Calladine  good- 
humouredly.  "  I  never  knowed  'em  come  down  wi'  me." 

"  You  ought  to,  then.     My  leg's  as  near  broke  as  it  can  be." 

"  What,  have  you  hurt  yourself?  " 

"  I  should  think  I  have.  Look  here  — "  And  he  began  to 
pull  up  his  trouser  leg.  But  Alvina  had  given  the  candle  to 
Calladine,  and  fled.  She  had  a  last  view  of  Arthur  stooping 
over  his  precious  leg,  while  Calladine  stooped  his  length  and 
held  down  the  candle. 

When  she  got  home  she  took  off  her  dress  and  washed  her- 
self hard  and  washed  the  stained  sleeve,  thoroughly,  thor- 
oughly, and  threw  away  the  wash  water  and  rinsed  the  wash- 
bowls with  fresh  water,  scrupulously.  Then  she  dressed  her- 


92  THE  LOST  GIRL 

self  in  her  black  dress  once  more,  did  her  hair,  and  went 
downstairs. 

But  she  could  not  sew  —  and  she  could  not  settle  down.  It 
was  Saturday  evening,  and  her  father  had  opened  the  shop, 
Miss  Pinnegar  had  gone  to  Knarborough.  She  would  be  back 
at  nine  o'clock.  Alvina  set  about  to  make  a  mock  woodcock, 
or  a  mock  something  or  other,  with  cheese  and  an  egg  and 
bits  of  toast.  Her  eyes  were  dilated  and  as  if  amused,  mock- 
ing, her  face  quivered  a  little  with  irony  that  was  not  all 
enjoyable. 

"  I'm  glad  you've  come,"  said  Alvina,  as  Miss  Pinnegar  en- 
tered. "  The  supper's  just  done.  I'll  ask  father  if  he'll  close 
the  shop." 

Of  course  James  would  not  close  the  shop,  though  he  was 
merely  wasting  light.  He  nipped  in  to  eat  his  supper,  and 
started  out  again  with  a  mouthful  the  moment  he  heard  the 
ping  of  the  bell.  He  kept  his  customers  chatting  as  long  as 
he  could.  His  love  for  conversation  had  degenerated  into  a 
spasmodic  passion  for  chatter. 

Alvina  looked  across  at  Miss  Pinnegar,  as  the  two  sat  at 
the  meagre  supper-table.  Her  eyes  were  dilated  and  arched 
with  a  mocking,  almost  satanic  look. 

"  I've  made  up  my  mind  about  Albert  Witham,"  said  Alvina. 
Miss  Pinnegar  looked  at  her. 

"  Which  way?  "  she  asked,  demurely,  but  a  little  sharp. 

"  It's  all  off,"  said  Alvina,  breaking  into  a  nervous  laugh. 

"Why?     What  has  happened?  " 

"  Nothing  has  happened.     I  can't  stand  him." 

"Why? — suddenly — "  said  Miss  Pinnegar. 

"It's  not  sudden,"  laughed  Alvina,  "Not  at  all.  I  can't 
stand  him.  I  never  could.  And  I  won't  try.  There!  Isn't 
that  plain?  "  And  she  went  off  into  her  hurried  laugh, 
partly  at  herself,  partly  at  Arthur,  partly  at  Albert,  partly  at 
Miss  Pinnegar. 

"  Oh,  well,  if  you're  so  sure  — "  said  Miss  Pinnegar  rather 
bitingly. 

"  I  am  quite  sure  — "  said  Alvina.     "  I'm  quite  certain." 

"Cock-sure  people  are  often  most  mistaken,"  said  Miss 
Pinnegar. 

"I'd  rather  have  my  own  mistakes  than  somebody  else's 
rights,"  said  Alvina. 


THE  BEAU  93 

"Then  don't  expect  anybody  to  pay  for  your  mistakes," 
said  Miss  Pinnegar. 

"  It  would  be  all  the  same  if  I  did,"  said  Alvina. 

When  she  lay  in  bed,  she  stared  at  the  light  of  the  street- 
lamp  on  the  wall.  She  was  thinking  busily :  but  heaven  knows 
what  she  was  thinking.  She  had  sharpened  the  edge  of  her 
temper.  She  was  waiting  till  tomorrow.  She  was  waiting 
till  she  saw  Albert  Witham.  She  wanted  to  finish  off  with 
him.  She  was  keen  to  cut  clean  through  any  correspondence 
with  him.  She  stared  for  many  hours  at  the  light  of  the 
street-lamp,  and  there  was  a  narrowed  look  in  her  eyes. 

The  next  day  she  did  not  go  to  Morning  Service,  but  stayed 
at  home  to  cook  the  dinner.  In  the  evening  she  sat  in  her 
place  in  the  choir.  In  the  Withams'  pew  sat  Lottie  and  Albert 
— no  Arthur.  Albert  kept  glancing  up.  Alvina  could  not 
bear  the  sight  of  him  —  she  simply  could  not  bear  the  sight 
of  him.  Yet  in  her  low,  sweet  voice  she  sang  the  alto  to 
the  hymns,  right  to  the  vesper: 

"  Lord  keep  us  safe  this  night 
Secure  from  all  our  fears, 
May  angels  guard  us  while  we  sleep 
Till  morning  light  appears — ' 

As  she  sang  her  alto,  and  as  the  soft  and  emotional  har- 
mony of  the  vesper  swelled  luxuriously  through  the  chapel, 
she  was  peeping  over  her  folded  hands  at  Lottie's  hat.  She 
could  not  bear  Lottie's  hats.  There  was  something  aggressive 
and  vulgar  about  them.  And  she  simply  detested  the  look 
of  the  back  of  Albert's  head,  as  he  too  stooped  to  the  vesper 
prayer.  It  looked  mean  and  rather  common.  She  remem- 
bered Arthur  had  the  same  look,  bending  to  prayer.  There!  — 
why  had  she  not  seen  it  before!  That  petty,  vulgar  little 
look!  How  could  she  have  thought  twice  of  Arthur.  She 
had  made  a  fool  of  herself,  as  usual.  Him  and  his  little  leg. 
She  grimaced  round  the  chapel,  waiting  for  people  to  bob 
up  their  heads  and  take  their  departure. 

At  the  gate  Albert  was  waiting  for  her.  He  came  forward 
lifting  his  hat  with  a  smiling  and  familiar  "Good  evening!  " 

"Good  evening,"  she  murmured. 

"  It's  ages  since  I've  seen  you,"  he  said.  "  And  I've  looked 
out  for  you  everywhere." 


94  THE  LOST  GIRL 

It  was  raining  a  little.     She  put  up  her  umbrella. 

*'  You'll  take  a  little  stroll.     The  rain  isn't  much,"  he  said. 

;<  No,  thank  you,"  she  said.     "  I  must  go  home." 

"  Why,  what's  your  hurry !  Walk  as  far  as  Beeby  Bridge. 
Go  on." 

"  No,  thank  you." 

"How's  that?     What  makes  you  refuse?  " 

"  I  don't  want  to." 

He  paused  and  looked  down  at  her.  The  cold  and  super- 
cilious look  of  anger,  a  little  spiteful,  came  into  his  face. 

"Do  you  mean  because  of  the  rain?  "  he  said. 

"No.  I  hope  you  don't  mind.  But  I  don't  want  to  take 
any  more  walks.  I  don't  mean  anything  by  them." 

"  Oh,  as  for  that,"  he  said,  taking  the  words  out  of  her 
mouth.  "  Why  should  you  mean  anything  by  them !  "  He 
smiled  down  on  her. 

She  looked  him  straight  in  the  face. 

"  But  I'd  rather  not  take  any  more  walks,  thank  you  — 
none  at  all,"  she  said,  looking  him  full  in  the  eyes. 

"  You  wouldn't !  "  he  replied,  stiffening. 

"Yes.     I'm  quite  sure,"  she  said. 

"  As  sure  as  all  that,  are  you !  "  he  said,  with  a  sneering 
grimace.  He  stood  eyeing  her  insolently  up  and  down. 

"  Good-night,"  she  said.  His  sneering  made  her  furious. 
Putting  her  umbrella  between  him  and  her,  she  walked  off. 

"  Good-night  then,"  he  replied,  unseen  by  her.  But  his 
voice  was  sneering  and  impotent. 

She  went  home  quivering.  But  her  soul  was  burning  with 
satisfaction.  She  had  shaken  them  off. 

Later  she  wondered  if  she  had  been  unkind  to  him.  But  it 
was  done  —  and  done  for  ever.  Vogue  la  galere. 


CHAPTER  VI 
HOUGHTON'S  LAST  ENDEAVOUR 

THE  trouble  with  her  ship  was  that  it  would  not  sail.  It 
rode  water-logged  in  the  rotting  port  of  home.  All  very 
well  to  have  wild,  reckless  moods  of  irony  and  independence, 
if  you  have  to  pay  for  them  by  withering  dustily  on  the  shelf. 

Alvina  fell  again  into  humility  and  fear:  she  began  to  show 
symptoms  of  her  mother's  heart  trouble.  For  day  followed 
day,  month  followed  month,  season  after  season  went  by,  and 
she  grubbed  away  like  a  housemaid  in  Manchester  House,  she 
hurried  round  doing  the  shopping,  she  sang  in  the  choir  on 
Sundays,  she  attended  the  various  chapel  events,  she  went 
out  to  visit  friends,  arid  laughed  and  talked  and  played  games. 
But  all  the  time,  what  was  there  actually  in  her  life?  Not 
much.  She  was  withering  towards  old-maiddom.  Already  in 
her  twenty-eighth  year,  she  spent  her  days  grubbing  in  the 
house,  whilst  her  father  became  an  elderly,  frail  man  still  too 
lively  in  mind  and  spirit.  Miss  Pinnegar  began  to  grow  grey 
and  elderly  too,  money  became  scarcer  and  scarcer,  there  was 
a  black  day  ahead  when  her  father  would  die  and  the  home 
be  broken  up,  and  she  would  have  to  tackle  life  as  a  worker. 

There  lay  the  only  alternative:  in  work.  She  might  slave 
her  days  away  teaching  the  piano,  as  Miss  Frost  had  done: 
she  might  find  a  subordinate  post  as  nurse:  she  might  sit  in 
the  cash-desk  of  some  shop.  Some  work  of  some  sort  would 
be  found  for  her.  And  she  would  sink  into  the  routine  of 
her  job,  as  did  so  many  women,  and  grow  old  and  die,  chat- 
tering and  fluttering.  She  would  have  what  is  called  her  in- 
dependence. But,  seriously  faced  with  that  treasure,  and  with- 
out the  option  of  refusing  it,  strange  how  hideous  she  found  it. 

Work!  —  a  job!  More  even  than  she  rebelled  against  the 
Withams  did  she  rebel  against  a  job.  Albert  Witham  was 
distasteful  to  her  —  or  rather,  he  was  not  exactly  distasteful,  he 
was  chiefly  incongruous.  She  could  never  get  over  the  feeling 
that  he  was  mouthing  and  smiling  at  her  through  the  glass 
wall  of  an  aquarium,  he  being  on  the  watery  side.  Whether 

95 


96  THE  LOST  GIRL 

she  would  ever  be  able  to  take  to  his  strange  and  dishuman  ele- 
ment, who  knows?  Anyway  it  would  be  some  sort  of  an 
adventure:  better  than  a  job.  She  rebelled  with  all  her  back- 
bone against  the  word  706.  Even  the  substitutes,  employment 
or  work,  were  detestable,  unbearable.  Emphatically,  she  did 
not  want  to  work  for  a  wage.  It  was  too  humiliating.  Could 
anything  be  more  infra  dig  than  the  performing  of  a  set  of 
special  actions  day  in  day  out,  for  a  life-time,  in  order  to  re- 
ceive some  shillings  every  seventh  day.  Shameful!  A  con- 
dition of  shame.  The  most  vulgar,  sordid  and  humiliating 
of  all  forms  of  slavery:  so  mechanical.  Far  better  be  a  slave 
outright,  in  contact  with  all  the  whims  and  impulses  of  a 
human  being,  than  serve  some  mechanical  routine  of  modern 
work. 

She  trembled  with  anger,  impotence,  and  fear.  For  months, 
the  thought  of  Albert  was  a  torment  to  her.  She  might  have 
married  him.  He  would  have  been  strange,  a  strange  fish. 
But  were  it  not  better  to  take  the  strange  leap,  over  into  his 
element,  than  to  condemn  oneself  to  the  routine  of  a  job? 
He  would  have  been  curious  and  dishuman.  But  after  all, 
it  would  have  been  an  experience.  In  a  way,  she  liked  him. 
There  was  something  odd  and  integral  about  him,  which  she 
liked.  He  was  not  a  liar.  In  his  own  line,  he  was  honest 
and  direct.  Then  he  would  take  her  to  South  Africa:  a  whole 
new  milieu.  And  perhaps  she  would  have  children.  She 
shivered  a  little.  No,  not  his  children!  He  seemed  so  curi- 
ously cold-blooded.  And  yet,  why  not?  Why  not  his  curious, 
pale,  half  cold-blooded  children,  like  little  fishes  of  her  own? 
Why  not?  Everything  was  possible:  and  even  desirable,  once 
one  could  see  the  strangeness  of  it.  Once  she  could  plunge 
through  the  wall  of  the  aquarium!  Once  she  could  kiss  him! 

Therefore  Miss  Pinnegar's  quiet  harping  on  the  string  was 
unbearable. 

"  I  can't  understand  that  you  disliked  Mr.  Witham  so 
much?  "  said  Miss  Pinnegar. 

"  We  never  can  understand  those  things,"  said  Alvina.  "  I 
can't  understand  why  I  dislike  tapioca  and  arrowroot  —  but 
I  do." 

"  That's  different,"  said  Miss  Pinnegar  shortly. 

"  It's  no  more  easy  to  understand,"  said  Alvina. 

"  Because  there's  no  need  to  understand  it,"  said  Miss  Pin- 
negar. 


HOUGHTON'S  LAST  ENDEAVOUR      97 

"And  is  there  need  to  understand  the  other?  " 

"  Certainly.  I  can  see  nothing  wrong  with  him,"  said  Miss 
Pinnegar. 

Alvina  went  away  in  silence.  This  was  in  the  first  months 
after  she  had  given  Albert  his  dismissal.  He  was  at  Oxford 
again  —  would  not  return  to  Woodhouse  till  Christmas.  Be- 
tween her  and  the  Woodhouse  Withams  there  was  a  decided 
coldness.  They  never  looked  at  her  now  — nor  she  at  them. 

None  the  less,  as  Christmas  drew  near  Alvina  worked  up  her 
feelings.  Perhaps  she  would  be  reconciled  to  him.  She 
would  slip  across  and  smile  to  him.  She  would  take  the 
plunge,  once  and  for  all  —  and  kiss  him  and  marry  him  and 
bear  the  little  half-fishes,  his  children.  She  worked  herself 
into  quite  a  fever  of  anticipation. 

But  when  she  saw  him,  the  first  evening,  sitting  stiff  and 
staring  flatly  in  front  of  him  in  Chapel,  staring  away  from 
everything  in  the  world,  at  heaven  knows  what  —  just  as 
fishes  stare  —  then  his  dishumanness  came  over  her  again 
like  an  arrest,  and  arrested  all  her  flights  of  fancy.  He  stared 
flatly  in  front  of  him,  and  flatly  set  a  wall  of  oblivion  be- 
tween him  and  her.  She  trembled  and  let  be. 

After  Christmas,  however,  she  had  nothing  at  all  to  think 
forward  to.  And  it  was  then  she  seemed  to  shrink:  she 
seemed  positively  to  shrink. 

"You  never  spoke  to  Mr.  Witham?  "  Miss  Pinnegar  asked. 

"  He  never  spoke  to  me,"  replied  Alvina. 

"  He  raised  his  hat  to  me." 

"  You  ought  to  have  married  him,  Miss  Pinnegar,"  said 
Alvina.  "He  would  have  been  right  for  you."  And  she 
laughed  rather  mockingly. 

"There  is  no  need  to  make  provision  for  me,"  said  Miss 
Pinnegar. 

And  after  this,  she  was  a  long  time  before  she  for- 
gave Alvina,  and  was  really  friendly  again.  Perhaps  she 
would  never  have  forgiven  her  if  she  had  not  found  her 
weeping  rather  bitterly  in  her  mother's  abandoned  sitting- 
room. 

Now  so  far,  the  story  of  Alvina  is  commonplace  enough. 
It  is  more  or  less  the  story  of  thousands  of  girls.  They  all 
find  work.  It  is  the  ordinary  solution  of  everything.  And 
if  we  were  dealing  with  an  ordinary  girl  we  should  have  to 
carry  on  mildly  and  dully  down  the  long  years  of  employ- 


98  THE  LOST  GIRL 

ment;  or,  at  the  best,  marriage  with  some  dull  school-teacher 
or  office-clerk. 

But  we  protest  that  Alvina  is  not  ordinary.  Ordinary  peo- 
ple, ordinary  fates.  But  extraordinary  people,  extraordinary 
fates.  Or  else  no  fate  at  all.  The  all-to-one-pattern  modern 
system  is  too  much  for  most  extraordinary  individuals.  It 
just  kills  them  off  or  throws  them  disused  aside. 

There  have  been  enough  stories  about  ordinary  people.  I 
should  think  the  Duke  of  Clarence  must  even  have  found 
malmsey  nauseating,  when  he  choked  and  went  purple  and 
was  really  asphyxiated  in  a  butt  of  it.  And  ordinary  people 
are  no  malmsey.  Just  ordinary  tap-water.  And  we  have  been 
drenched  and  deluged  and  so  nearly  drowned  in  perpetual 
floods  of  ordinariness,  that  tap-water  tends  to  become  a  really 
hateful  fluid  to  us.  We  loathe  its  out-of-the-tap  tastelessness. 
We  detest  ordinary  people.  We  are  in  peril  of  our  lives  from 
them:  and  in  peril  of  our  souls  too,  for  they  would  damn  us 
one  and  all  to  the  ordinary.  Every  individual  should,  by 
nature,  have  his  extraordinary  points.  But  nowadays  you  may 
look  for  them  with  a  microscope,  they  are  so  worn-down  by 
the  regular  machine-friction  of  our  average  and  mechanical 
days. 

There  was  no  hope  for  Alvina  in  the  ordinary.  If  help 
came,  it  would  have  to  come  from  the  extraordinary.  Hence 
the  extreme  peril  of  her  case.  Hence  the  bitter  fear  and 
humiliation  she  felt  as  she  drudged  shabbily  on  in  Manchester 
House,  hiding  herself  as  much  as  possible  from  public  view. 
Men  can  suck  the  heady  juice  of  exalted  self-importance  from 
the  bitter  weed  of  failure  —  failures  are  usually  the  most  con- 
ceited of  men :  even  as  was  James  Houghton.  But  to  a  woman, 
failure  is  another  matter.  For  her  it  means  failure  to  live, 
failure  to  establish  her  own  life  on  the  face  of  the  earth.  And 
this  is  humiliating,  the  ultimate  humiliation. 

And  so  the  slow  years  crept  round,  and  the  completed  coil 
of  each  one  was  a  further  heavy,  strangling  noose.  Alvina  had 
passed  her  twenty-sixth,  twenty-seventh,  twenty-eighth  and  even 
her  twenty-ninth  year.  She  was  in  her  thirtieth.  It  ought  to 
be  a  laughing  matter.  But  it  isn't. 

Ach,  schon  zwanzig 
Ach,  schon  zwanzig 
Immer  noch  durch's  Leben  tanz'  ich 


HOUGHTON'S  LAST  ENDEAVOUR      99 

Jeder,  Jeder  will  mich  kiissen 
Mir  das  Leben  zu  versiissen. 

Ach,  schon  dreissig 

Ach,  schon  dreissig 
Immer  Madchen,  Madchen  heiss'  ich. 
In  dem  Zopf  schon  graue  Harchen 
Ach,  wie  schnell  vergehn  die  Jahrchen, 

Ach,  schon  vierzig 

Ach,  schon  vierzig 
Und  noch  immer  Keiner  find  'sich. 
Im  gesicht  schon  graue  Flecken 
Ach,  das  muss  im  Spiegel  sleeken. 

Ach,  schon  fiinfzig 

Ach,  schon  fiinfzig 
Und  noch  immer  Keiner  will  'mich; 
Soil  ich  mich  mil  Banden  zieren 
Soil  ich  einen  Schleier  fiihren? 

Dann  heisst's,  die  Alte  putzt  sich, 

Sie  1st  fu'fzig,  sie  ist  fu'fzig. 

True  enough,  in  Alvina's  pig-tail  of  soft  brown  the  grey 
hairs  were  already  showing.  True  enough,  she  still  preferred 
to  be  thought  of  as  a  girl.  And  the  slow-footed  years,  so 
heavy  in  passing,  were  so  imperceptibly  numerous  in  their 
accumulation. 

But  we  are  not  going  to  follow  our  song  to  its  fatal  and 
dreary  conclusion.  Presumably,  the  ordinary  old-maid  hero- 
ine nowadays  is  destined  to  die  in  her  fifties,  she  is  not  allowed 
to  be  the  long-liver  of  the  bygone  novels.  Let  the  song  suffice 
her. 

James  Houghton  had  still  another  kick  in  him.  He  had 
one  last  scheme  up  his  sleeve.  Looking  out  on  a  changing 
world,  it  was  the  popular  novelties  which  had  the  last  fascina- 
tion for  him.  The  Skating  Rink,  like  another  Charybdis,  had 
all  but  entangled  him  in  its  swirl  as  he  pushed  painfully  off 
from  the  rocks  of  Throttle-Ha'penny.  But  he  had  escaped, 
and  for  almost  three  years  had  lain  obscurely  in  port,  like  a 
frail  and  finished  bark,  selling  the  last  of  his  bits  and  bobs, 
and  making  little  splashes  in  warehouse-oddments.  Miss  Pin- 
negar  thought  he  had  really  gone  quiet. 

But  alas,  at  that  degenerated  and  shabby,  down-at-heel  club 
he  met  another  tempter:  a  plump  man  who  had  been  in  the 
music-hall  line  as  a  sort  of  agent.  This  man  had  catered  for 


100  THE  LOST  GIRL 

the  little  shows  of  little  towns.  He  had  been  in  America,  out 
West,  doing  shows  there.  He  had  trailed  his  way  back  to 
England,  where  he  had  left  his  wife  and  daughter.  But  he 
did  not  resume  his  family  life.  Wherever  he  was,  his  wife 
was  a  hundred  miles  away.  Now  he  found  himself  more  or 
less  stranded  in  Woodhouse.  He  had  nearly  fixed  himself  up 
with  a  music-hall  in  the  Potteries  —  as  manager :  he  had  ail-but 
got  such  another  place  at  Ickley,  in  Derbyshire:  he  had  forced 
his  way  through  the  industrial  and  mining  townlets,  prospect- 
ing for  any  sort  of  music-hall  or  show  from  which  he  could  get 
a  picking.  And  now,  in  very  low  water,  he  found  himselt 
at  Woodhouse. 

Woodhouse  had  a  cinema  already:  a  famous  Empire  run-up 
by  Jordan,  the  sly  builder  and  decorator  who  had  got  on  so 
surprisingly.  In  James's  younger  days,  Jordan  was  an  obscure 
and  illiterate  nobody.  And  now  he  had  a  motor  car,  and 
looked  at  the  tottering  James  with  sardonic  contempt,  from 
under  his  heavy,  heavy-lidded  dark  eyes.  He  was  rather  stout, 
frail  in  health,  but  silent  and  insuperable,  was  A.  W.  Jordan. 

"  I  missed  a  chance  there,"  said  James,  fluttering.  "  I 
missed  a  rare  chance  there.  I  ought  to  have  been  first  with 
a  cinema." 

He  admitted  as  much  to  Mr.  May,  the  stranger  who  was 
looking  for  some  sort  of  "  managing  "  job.  Mr.  May,  who 
also  was  plump  and  who  could  hold  his  tongue,  but  whose 
pink,  fat  face  and  light-blue  eyes  had  a  loud  look,  for  all 
that,  put  the  speech  in  his  pipe  and  smoked  it.  Not  that  he 
smoked  a  pipe:  always  cigarettes.  But  he  seized  on  James's 
admission,  as  something  to  be  made  the  most  of. 

Now  Mr.  May's  mind,  though  quick,  was  pedestrian,  not 
winged.  He  had  come  to  Woodhouse  not  to  look  at  Jordan's 
"Empire,"  but  at  the  temporary  wooden  structure  that  stood 
in  the  old  Cattle  Market  — "  Wright's  Cinematograph  and  Va- 
riety Theatre."  Wright's  was  not  a  superior  show,  like  the 
Woodhouse  Empire.  Yet  it  was  always  packed  with  colliers 
and  work-lasses.  But  unfortunately  there  was  no  chance  of 
Mr.  May's  getting  a  finger  in  the  Cattle  Market  pie.  Wright's 
was  a  family  affair.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Wright  and  a  son  and 
two  daughters  with  their  husbands:  a  tight  old  lock-up  family 
concern.  Yet  it  was  the  kind  of  show  that  appealed  to  Mr. 
May:  pictures  between  the  turns.  The  cinematograph  was  but 
an  item  in  the  program,  amidst  the  more  thrilling  incidents  — 


HOUGHTON'S  LAST  ENDEAVOUR      101 

to  Mr.  May  —  of  conjurors,  popular  songs,  five-minute  farces, 
performing  birds,  and  comics.  Mr.  May  was  too  human  to 
believe  that  a  show  should  consist  entirely  of  the  dithering 
eye-ache  of  a  film. 

He  was  becoming  really  depressed  by  his  failure  to  find  any 
opening.  He  had  his  family  to  keep  —  and  though  his  honesty 
was  of  the  variety  sort,  he  had  a  heavy  conscience  in  the  direc- 
tion of  his  wife  and  daughter.  Having  been  so  long  in  Amer- 
ica, he  had  acquired  American  qualities,  one  of  which  was 
this  heavy  sort  of  private  innocence,  coupled  with  complacent 
and  natural  unscrupulousness  in  "matters  of  business."  A 
man  of  some  odd  sensitiveness  in  material  things,  he  liked  to 
have  his  clothes  neat  and  spick,  his  linen  immaculate,  his  face 
clean-shaved  like  a  cherub.  But  alas,  his  clothes  were  now 
old-fashioned,  so  that  their  rather  expensive  smartness  was 
detrimental  to  his  chances,  in  spite  of  their  scrupulous  look 
of  having  come  almost  new  out  of  the  bandbox  that  morning. 
His  rather  small  felt  hats  still  curved  jauntily  over  his  full 
pink  face.  But  his  eyes  looked  lugubrious,  as  if  he  felt  he 
had  not  deserved  so  much  bad  luck,  and  there  were  bilious 
lines  beneath  them. 

So  Mr.  May,  in  his  room  in  the  Moon  and  Stars,  which  was 
the  best  inn  in  Woodhouse  —  he  must  have  a  good  hotel  — 
lugubriously  considered  his  position.  Woodhouse  offered  lit- 
tle or  nothing.  He  must  go  to  Alfreton.  And  would  he  find 
anything  there?  Ah,  where,  where  in  this  hateful  world  was 
there  refuge  for  a  man  saddled  with  responsibilities,  who 
wanted  to  do  his  best  and  was  given  no  opportunity?  Mr. 
May  had  travelled  in  his  Pullman  car  and  gone  straight  to  the 
best  hotel  in  the  town,  like  any  other  American  with  money  — 
in  America.  He  had  done  it  smart,  too.  And  now,  in  this 
grubby  penny-picking  England,  he  saw  his  boots  being  worn- 
down  at  the  heel,  and  was  afraid  of  being  stranded  without 
cash  even  for  a  railway  ticket.  If  he  had  to  clear  out  without 
paying  his  hotel  bill  —  well,  that  was  the  world's  fault.  He 
had  to  live.  But  he  must  perforce  keep  enough  in  hand  for 
a  ticket  to  Birmingham.  He  always  said  his  wife  was  in 
London.  And  he  always  walked  down  to  Lumley  to  post  his 
letters.  He  was  full  of  evasions. 

So  again  he  walked  down  to  Lumley  to  post  his  letters.  And 
he  looked  at  Lumley.  And  he  found  it  a  damn  god-forsaken 
hell  of  a  hole.  It  was  a  long  straggle  of  a  dusty  road  down 


102  THE  LOST  GIRL 

in  the  valley,  with  a  pale-grey  dust  and  spatter  from  the  pot- 
tery, and  big  chimneys  bellying  forth  black  smoke  right  by 
the  road.  Then  there  was  a  short  cross-way,  up  which  one 
saw  the  iron  foundry,  a  black  and  rusty  place.  A  little  further 
on  was  the  railway  junction,  and  beyond  that,  more  houses 
stretching  to  Hathersedge,  where  the  stocking  factories  were 
busy.  Compared  with  Lumley,  Woodhouse,  whose  church 
could  be  seen  sticking  up  proudly  and  vulgarly  on  an  eminence, 
above  trees  and  meadow-slopes,  was  an  idyllic  heaven. 

Mr.  May  turned  in  to  the  Derby  Hotel  to  have  a  small 
whiskey.  And  of  course  he  entered  into  conversation. 

"  You  seem  somewhat  quiet  at  Lumley,"  he  said,  in  his 
odd,  refined-showman's  voice.  "  Have  you  nothing  at  all  in 
the  way  of  amusement?  " 

"  They  all  go  up  to  Woodhouse,  else  to  Hathersedge." 

"  But  couldn't  you  support  some  place  of  your  own  —  some 
rival  to  Wright's  Variety?  " 

"  Ay  — 'appen  —  if  somebody  started  it." 

And  so  it  was  that  James  was  inoculated  with  the  idea  of 
starting  a  cinema  on  the  virgin  soil  of  Lumley.  To  the  women 
he  said  not  a  word.  But  on  the  very  first  morning  that  Mr. 
May  broached  the  subject,  he  became  a  new  man.  He  fluttered 
like  a  boy,  he  fluttered  as  if  he  had  just  grown  wings. 

"  Let  us  go  down,"  said  Mr.  May,  "  and  look  at  a  site. 
You  pledge  yourself  to  nothing  —  you  don't  compromise  your- 
self. You  merely  have  a  site  in  your  mind." 

And  so  it  came  to  pass  that,  next  morning,  this  oddly  as- 
sorted couple  went  down  to  Lumley  together.  James  was 
very  shabby,  in  his  black  coat  and  dark  grey  trousers,  and 
his  cheap  grey  cap.  He  bent  forward  as  he  walked,  and  still 
nipped  along  hurriedly,  as  if  pursued  by  fate.  His  face  was 
thin  and  still  handsome.  Odd  that  his  cheap  cap,  by  in- 
congruity, made  him  look  more  a  gentleman.  But  it  did. 
As  he  walked  he  glanced  alertly  hither  and  thither,  and 
saluted  everybody. 

By  his  side,  somewhat  tight  and  tubby,  with  his  chest  out 
and  his  head  back,  went  the  prim  figure  of  Mr.  May,  remind- 
ing one  of  a  consequential  bird  of  the  smaller  species.  His 
plumbago-grey  suit  fitted  exactly  —  save  that  it  was  perhaps 
a  little  tight.  The  jacket  and  waistcoat  were  bound  with  silk 
braid  of  exactly  the  same  shade  as  the  cloth.  His  soft  collar, 
immaculately  fresh,  had  a  dark  stripe  like  his  shirt.  His 


HOUGHTON'S  LAST  ENDEAVOUR      103 

boots  were  black,  with  grey  suede  uppers:  but  a  little  down  at 
heel.  His  dark-grey  hat  was  jaunty.  Altogether  he  looked 
very  spruce,  though  a  little  behind  the  fashions:  very  pink 
faced,  though  his  blue  eyes  were  bilious  beneath:  very  much 
on  the  spot,  although  the  spot  was  the  wrong  one. 

They  discoursed  amiably  as  they  went,  James  bending  for- 
ward, Mr.  May  bending  back.  Mr.  May  took  the  refined 
man-of-the-world  tone. 

"Of  course,"  he  said  —  he  used  the  two  words  very  often, 
and  pronounced  the  second,  rather  mincingly,  to  rhyme  with 
sauce:  "  Of  course,"  said  Mr.  May,  "  it's  a  disgusting  place  — 
disgusting!  I  never  was  in  a  worse,  in  all  the  cauce  of  my 
travels.  But  then  —  that  isn't  the  point — " 

He  spread  his  plump  hands  from  his  immaculate  shirt- 
cuffs. 

"  No,  it  isn't.  Decidedly  it  isn't.  That's  beside  the  point 
altogether.  What  we  want — "  began  James. 

"  Is  an  audience  —  of  cauce  —  !  And  we  have  it  —  !  Vir- 
gin soil  —  ! 

"  Yes,  decidedly.     Untouched !     An  unspoiled  market." 

"An  unspoiled  market!  "  reiterated  Mr.  May,  in  full  con- 
firmation, though  with  a  faint  flicker  of  a  smile.  "  How  very 
fortunate  for  us." 

"  Properly  handled,"  said  James.     "  Properly  handled." 

"  Why  yes  —  of  cauce!  Why  shouldn't  we  handle  it  prop- 
erly! " 

"  Oh,  we  shall  manage  that,  we  shall  manage  that,"  came 
the  quick,  slightly  husky  voice  of  James. 

"  Of  cauce  we  shall !  Why  bless  my  life,  if  we  can't  man- 
age an  audience  in  Lumley,  what  can  we  do." 

"  We  have  a  guide  in  the  matter  of  their  taste,"  said  James. 
"  We  can  see  what  Wright's  are  doing  —  and  Jordan's  —  and 
we  can  go  to  Hathersedge  and  Knarborough  and  Alfreton  — 
beforehand,  that  is  — " 

"Why  certainly  —  if  you  think  it's  necessary.  I'll  do  all 
that  for  you.  And  I'll  interview  the  managers  and  the  per- 
formers themselves  —  as  if  I  were  a  journalist,  don't  you  see. 
I've  done  a  fair  amount  of  journalism,  and  nothing  easier  than 
to  get  cards  from  various  newspapers." 

"  Yes,  that's  a  good  suggestion,"  said  James.  "  As  if  you 
were  going  to  write  an  account  in  the  newspapers  —  excel- 
lent." 


104  THE  LOST  GIRL 

"And  so  simple!  You  pick  up  just  all  the  information  you 
require." 

"Decidedly  —  decidedly!"  said  James. 

And  so  behold  our  two  heroes  sniffing  round  the  sordid 
backs  and  wasted  meadows  and  marshy  places  of  Lumley. 
They  found  one  barren  patch  where  two  caravans  were  stand- 
ing. A  woman  was  peeling  potatoes,  sitting  on  the  bottom 
step  of  her  caravan.  A  half-caste  girl  came  up  with  a  large 
pale-blue  enamelled  jug  of  water.  In  the  background  were 
two  booths  covered  up  with  coloured  canvas.  Hammering  was 
heard  inside. 

"  Good-morning !  "  said  Mr.  May,  stopping  before  the 
woman.  "  'Tisn't  fair  time,  is  it?  " 

"  No,  it's  no  fair,"  said  the  woman. 

"  I  see.     You're  just  on  your  own.     Getting  on  all  right?  " 

"  Fair,"  said  the  woman. 

"Only  fair!     Sorry.     Good-morning." 

Mr.  May's  quick  eye,  roving  round,  had  seen  a  negro  stoop 
from  under  the  canvas  that  covered  one  booth.  The  negro 
was  thin,  and  looked  young  but  rather  frail,  and  limped. 
His  face  was  very  like  that  of  the  young  negro  in  Watteau's 
drawing  —  pathetic,  wistful,  north-bitten.  In  an  instant  Mr. 
May  had  taken  all  in :  the  man  was  the  woman's  husband  — 
they  were  acclimatized  in  these  regions:  the  booth  where  he 
had  been  hammering  was  a  Hoop-La.  The  other  would  be 
a  cocoanut-shy.  Feeling  the  instant  American  dislike  for  the 
presence  of  a  negro,  Mr.  May  moved  off  with  James. 

They  found  out  that  the  woman  was  a  Lumley  woman,  that 
she  had  two  children,  that  the  negro  was  a  most  quiet  and  re- 
spectable chap,  but  that  the  family  kept  to  itself,  and  didn't 
mix  up  with  Lumley. 

"  I  should  think  so,"  said  Mr.  May,  a  little  disgusted  even 
at  the  suggestion. 

Then  he  proceeded  to  find  out  how  long  they  had  stood  on 
this  ground  —  three  months  —  how  long  they  would  remain  — 
only  another  week,  then  they  were  moving  off  to  Alfreton 
fair  —  who  was  the  owner  of  the  pitch  —  Mr.  Bows,  the 
butcher.  Ah!  And  what  was  the  ground  used  for?  Oh,  it 
was  building  land.  But  the  foundation  wasn't  very  good. 

"The  very  thing!  Aren't  we  fortunate!"  cried  Mr.  May, 
perking  up  the  moment  they  were  in  the  street.  But  this 
cheerfulness  and  brisk  perkiness  was  a  great  strain  on  him. 


HOUGHTON'S  LAST  ENDEAVOUR      105 

He  missed  his  eleven  o'clock  whiskey  terribly  —  terribly  —  his 
pick-me-up!  And  he  daren't  confess  it  to  James,  who,  he 
knew,  was  T-T.  So  he  dragged  his  weary  and  hollow  way 
up  to  Woodhouse,  and  sank  with  a  long  "  Oh !  "  of  nervous 
exhaustion  in  the  private  bar  of  the  Moon  and  Stars.  He 
wrinkled  his  short  nose.  The  smell  of  the  place  was  dis- 
tasteful to  him.  The  disgusting  beer  that  the  colliers  drank. 
Oh !  —  he  was  so  tired.  He  sank  back  with  his  whiskey  and 
stared  blankly,  dismally  in  front  of  him.  Beneath  his  eyes 
he  looked  more  bilious  still.  He  felt  thoroughly  out  of  luck, 
and  petulant. 

None  the  less  he  sallied  out  with  all  his  old  bright  perki- 
ncss,  the  next  time  he  had  to  meet  James.  He  hadn't  yet 
broached  the  question  of  costs.  When  would  he  be  able  to 
get  an  advance  from  James?  He  must  hurry  the  matter  for- 
ward. He  brushed  his  crisp,  curly  brown  hair  carefully  be- 
fore the  mirror.  How  grey  he  was  at  the  temples!  No  won- 
der, dear  me,  with  such  a  life!  He  was  in  his  shirt-sleeves. 
His  waistcoat,  with  its  grey  satin  back,  fitted  him  tightly.  He 
had  filled  out  —  but  he  hadn't  developed  a  corporation.  Not 
at  all.  He  looked  at  himself  sideways,  and  feared  dismally 
he  was  thinner.  He  was  one  of  those  men  who  carry  them- 
selves in  a  birdie  fashion,  so  that  their  tail  sticks  out  a  little 
behind,  jauntily.  How  wonderfully  the  satin  of  his  waist- 
coat had  worn!  He  looked  at  his  shirt-cuffs.  They  were 
going.  Luckily,  when  he  had  had  the  shirts  made  he  had 
secured  enough  material  for  the  renewing  of  cuffs  and  neck- 
bands. He  put  on  his  coat,  from  which  he  had  flicked  the 
faintest  suspicion  of  dust,  and  again  settled  himself  to  go  out 
and  meet  James  on  the  question  of  an  advance.  He  simply 
must  have  an  advance. 

He  didn't  get  it  that  day,  none  the  less.  The  next  morning 
he  was  ringing  for  his  tea  at  six  o'clock.  And  before  ten 
he  had  already  flitted  to  Lumley  and  back,  he  had  already 
had  a  word  with  Mr.  Bows,  about  that  pitch,  and,  overcoming 
all  his  repugnance,  a  word  with  the  quiet,  frail,  sad  negro, 
about  Alfreton  fair,  and  the  chance  of  buying  some  sort  of 
collapsible  building,  for  his  cinematograph. 

With  all  this  news  he  met  James  —  not  at  the  shabby  club, 
but  in  the  deserted  reading-room  of  the  so-called  Artizans 
Hall  —  where  never  an  artizan  entered,  but  only  men  of 
James's  class.  Here  they  took  the  chess-board  and  pretended 


106  THE  LOST  GIRL 

to  start  a  game.  But  their  conversation  was  rapid  and  secre- 
tive. 

Mr.  May  disclosed  all  his  discoveries.  And  then  he  said, 
tentatively: 

"  Hadn't  we  better  think  about  the  financial  part  now  ?  If 
we're  going  to  look  round  for  an  erection  — "  curious  that  he 
always  called  it  an  erection  — "  we  shall  have  to  know  what 
we  are  going  to  spend." 

"  Yes  —  yes.  Well  — "  said  James  vaguely,  nervously,  giv- 
ing a  glance  at  Mr.  May.  Whilst  Mr.  May  abstractedly  fin- 
gered his  black  knight. 

"  You  see  at  the  moment,"  said  Mr.  May,  "  I  have  no 
funds  that  I  can  represent  in  cash.  I  have  no  doubt  a  little 
later  —  if  we  need  it  —  I  can  find  a  few  hundreds.  Many 
things  are  due  —  numbers  of  things.  But  it  is  so  difficult  to 
collect  one's  dues,  particularly  from  America."  He  lifted  his 
blue  eyes  to  James  Houghton.  "  Of  course  we  can  delay  for 
some  time,  until  I  get  my  supplies.  Or  I  can  act  just  as  your 
manager  —  you  can  employ  me  — " 

He  watched  James's  face.  James  looked  down  at  the  chess- 
board. He  was  fluttering  with  excitement.  He  did  not  want 
a  partner.  He  wanted  to  be  in  this  all  by  himself.  He 
hated  partners. 

"You  will  agree  to  be  manager,  at  a  fixed  salary?  "  said 
James  hurriedly  and  huskily,  his  fine  fingers  slowly  rubbing 
each  other,  along  the  sides. 

"  Why  yes,  willingly,  if  you'll  give  me  the  option  of  be- 
coming your  partner  upon  terms  of  mutual  agreement,  later 
on." 

James  did  not  quite  like  this. 

"  What  terms  are  you  thinking  of?  "  he  asked. 

"Well,  it  doesn't  matter  for  the  moment.  Suppose  for 
the  moment  I  enter  an  engagement  as  your  manager,  at  a  sal- 
ary, let  us  say,  of  —  of  what,  do  you  think?  " 

"  So  much  a  week?  "  said  James  pointedly. 

"  Hadn't  we  better  make  it  monthly?  " 

The  two  men  looked  at  one  another. 

"With  a  month's  notice  on  either  hand?"  continued  Mr. 
May. 

"How  much?"  said  James,  avaricious. 

Mr.  May  studied  his  own  nicely  kept  hands. 

"Well,  I  don't  see  how  I  can  do  it  under  twenty  pounds 


HOUGHTON'S  LAST  ENDEAVOUR      107 

a  month.  Of  course  it's  ridiculously  low.  In  America  I 
never  accepted  less  than  three  hundred  dollars  a  month,  and 
that  was  my  poorest  and  lowest.  But  of  cauce,  England's  not 
America  —  more's  the  pity." 

But  James  was  shaking  his  head  in  a  vibrating  movement. 

"  Impossible!  "  he  replied  shrewdly.  "  Impossible!  Twenty 
pounds  a  month?  Impossible.  I  couldn't  do  it.  I  couldn't 
think  of  it." 

"Then  name  a  figure.  Say  what  you  can  think  of,"  re- 
torted Mr.  May,  rather  annoyed  by  this  shrewd,  shaking  head 
of  a  doddering  provincial,  and  by  his  own  sudden  collapse 
into  mean  subordination. 

"  I  can't  make  it  more  than  ten  pounds  a  month,"  said 
James  sharply. 

"What!  "  screamed  Mr.  May.  "What  am  I  to  live  on? 
What  is  my  wife  to  live  on?  " 

"  I've  got  to  make  it  pay,"  said  James.  "  If  I've  got  to  make 
it  pay,  I  must  keep  down  expenses  at  the  beginning." 

"No, —  on  the  contrary.  You  must  be  prepared  to  spend 
something  at  the  beginning.  If  you  go  in  a  pinch-and-scrape 
fashion  in  the  beginning,  you  will  get  nowhere  at  all.  Ten 
pounds  a  month!  Why  it's  impossible!  Ten  pounds  a 
month!  But  how  am  I  to  live?  " 

James's  head  still  vibrated  in  a  negative  fashion.  And  the 
two  men  came  to  no  agreement  that  morning.  Mr.  May  went 
home  more  sick  and  weary  than  ever,  and  took  his  whiskey 
more  biliously.  But  James  was  lit  with  the  light  of  battle. 

Poor  Mr.  May  had  to  gather  together  his  wits  and  his 
sprightliness  for  his  next  meeting.  He  had  decided  he  must 
make  a  percentage  in  other  ways.  He  schemed  in  all  known 
ways.  He  would  accept  the  ten  pounds  —  but  really,  did 
ever  you  hear  of  anything  so  ridiculous  in  your  life,  ten 
pounds!  —  dirty  old  screw,  dirty,  screwing  old  woman!  He 
would  accept  the  ten  pounds;  but  he  would  get  his  own  back. 

He  flitted  down  once  more  to  the  negro,  to  ask  him  of  a 
certain  wooden  show-house,  with  section  sides  and  roof,  an 
old  travelling  theatre  which  stood  closed  on  Selverhay  Com- 
mon, and  might  probably  be  sold.  He  pressed  across  once 
more  to  Mr.  Bows.  He  wrote  various  letters  and  drew  up 
certain  notes.  And  the  next  morning,  by  eight  o'clock,  he  was 
on  his  way  to  Selverhay:  walking,  poor  man,  the  long  and 
uninteresting  seven  miles  on  his  small  and  rather  tight-shod 


108  THE  LOST  GIRL 

feet,  through  country  that  had  been  once  beautiful  but  was 
now  scrubbled  all  over  with  mining  villages,  on  and  on  up 
heavy  hills  and  down  others,  asking  his  way  from  uncouth 
clowns,  till  at  last  he  came  to  the  Common,  which  wasn't  a 
Common  at  all,  but  a  sort  of  village  more  depressing  than 
usual:  naked,  high,  exposed  to  heaven  and  to  full  barren  view. 

There  he  saw  the  theatre-booth.  It  was  old  and  sordid- 
looking,  painted  dark-red  and  dishevelled  with  narrow,  tat- 
tered announcements.  The  grass  was  growing  high  up  the 
wooden  sides.  If  only  it  wasn't  rotten?  He  crouched  and 
probed  and  pierced  with  his  pen-knife,  till  a  country-police- 
man in  a  high  helmet  like  a  jug  saw  him,  got  off  his  bicycle 
and  came  stealthily  across  the  grass  wheeling  the  same  bicycle, 
and  startled  poor  Mr.  May  almost  into  apoplexy  by  demand- 
ing behind  him,  in  a  loud  voice: 

"What're  you  after?" 

Mr.  May  rose  up  with  flushed  face  and  swollen  neck-veins, 
holding  his  pen-knife  in  his  hand. 

"  Oh,"  he  said,  "  good-morning."  He  settled  his  waist- 
coat and  glanced  over  the  tall,  lanky  constable  and  the  glit- 
tering bicycle.  "  I  was  taking  a  look  at  this  old  erection, 
with  a  view  to  buying  it.  I'm  afraid  it's  going  rotten  from 
the  bottom." 

"Shouldn't  wonder,"  said  the  policeman  suspiciously, 
watching  Mr.  May  shut  the  pocket  knife. 

"  I'm  afraid  that  makes  it  useless  for  my  purpose,"  said 
Mr.  May. 

The  policeman  did  not  deign  to  answer. 

"Could  you  tell  me  where  I  can  find  out  about  it,  any- 
way? "  Mr.  May  used  his  most  affable,  man  of  the  world 
manner.  But  the  policeman  continued  to  stare  him  up  and 
down,  as  if  he  were  some  marvellous  specimen  unknown  on 
the  normal,  honest  earth. 

"What,  find  out?"  said  the  constable. 

"  About  being  able  to  buy  it,"  said  Mr.  May,  a  little  testily. 
It  was  with  great  difficulty  he  preserved  his  man-to-man  open- 
ness and  brightness. 

"They  aren't  here,"  said  the  constable. 

"  Oh  indeed!     Where  are  they?     And  who  are  they?  " 

The  policeman  eyed  him  more  suspiciously  than  ever. 

"  Cowlard's  their  name.  An'  they  live  in  Offerton  when 
they  aren't  travelling." 


HOUGHTON'S  LAST  ENDEAVOUR      109 

"Cowlard  —  thank  you."  Mr.  May  took  out  his  pocket- 
book.  "  C-o-w-l-a-r-d —  is  that  right?  And  the  address, 
please?  " 

"  I  dunno  th'  street.  But  you  can  find  out  from  the  Three 
Bells.  That's  Missis'  sister." 

"  The  Three  Bells  —  thank  you.     Offerton  did  you  say?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Offerton!  —  where's  that?  " 

"  About  eight  mile." 

"Really  —  and  how  do  you  get  there?  " 

"You  can  walk  —  or  go  by  train." 

"Oh,  there  is  a  station?  " 

"  Station !  "  The  policeman  looked  at  him  as  if  he  were 
either  a  criminal  or  a  fool. 

"Yes.     There  £5  a  station  there?  " 

"Ay  —  biggest  next  to  Chesterfield — " 

Suddenly  it  dawned  on  Mr.  May. 

"  Oh-h !  "  he  said.     "  You  mean  Alfreton  — " 

"Alfreton,  yes."  The  policeman  was  now  convinced  the 
man  was  a  wrong-'un.  But  fortunately  he  was  not  a  push- 
ing constable,  he  did  not  want  to  rise  in  the  police-scale: 
thought  himself  safest  at  the  bottom. 

"  And  which  is  the  way  to  the  station  here?  "  asked  Mr. 
May. 

"Do  yer  want  Pinxon  or  BulPill?  " 

"Pinxon  or  Bull'ill?  " 

"  There's  two,"  said  the  policeman. 

"For  Selverhay?  "  asked  Mr.  May. 

"  Yes,  them's  the  two." 

"And  which  is  the  best?  " 

"Depends  what  trains  is  runnin'.  Sometimes  yer  have  to 
wait  an  hour  or  two  — " 

"  You  don't  know  the  trains,  do  you  —  ?  " 

"  There's  one  in  th'  afternoon  —  but  I  don't  know  if  it'd 
be  gone  by  the  time  you  get  down." 

"To  where?" 

"BulPill." 

"Oh  Bull'ill!  Well,  perhaps  I'll  try.  Could  you  tell  me 
the  way?  " 

When,  after  an  hour's  painful  walk,  Mr.  May  came  to  Bull- 
well  Station  and  found  there  was  no  train  till  six  in  the  eve- 


110  THE  LOST  GIRL 

ning,  he  felt  he  was  earning  every  penny  he  would  ever  get 
from  Mr.  Houghton. 

The  first  intelligence  which  Miss  Pinnegar  and  Alvina 
gathered  of  the  coming  adventure  was  given  them  when  James 
announced  that  he  had  let  the  shop  to  Marsden,  the  grocer 
next  door.  Marsden  had  agreed  to  take  over  James's  premises 
at  the  same  rent  as  that  of  the  premises  he  already  occupied, 
and  moreover  to  do  all  alterations  and  put  in  all  fixtures  him- 
self. This  was  a  grand  scoop  for  James:  not  a  penny  was  it 
going  to  cost  him,  and  the  rent  was  clear  profit. 

"  But  when  ?  "  cried  Miss  Pinnegar. 

"  He  takes  possession  on  the  first  of  October." 

"Well  —  it's  a  good  idea.  The  shop  isn't  worth  while," 
said  Miss  Pinnegar. 

"Certainly  it  isn't,"  said  James,  rubbing  his  hands:  a  sign 
that  he  was  rarely  excited  and  pleased. 

"And  you'll  just  retire,  and  live  quietly,"  said  Miss  Pin- 
negar. 

"  I  shall  see,"  said  James.  And  with  those  fatal  words  he 
wafted  away  to  find  Mr.  May. 

James  was  now  nearly  seventy  years  old.  Yet  he  nipped 
about  like  a  leaf  in  the  wind.  Only,  it  was  a  frail  leaf. 

"Father's  got  something  "going,"  said  Alvina,  in  a  warning 
voice. 

"  I  believe  he  has,"  said  Miss  Pinnegar  pensively.  "  I  won- 
der what  it  is,  now." 

"  I  can't  imagine,"  laughed  Alvina.  "  But  I'll  bet  it's  some- 
thing awful  —  else  he'd  have  told  us." 

"  Yes,"  said  Miss  Pinnegar  slowly.  "  Most  likely  he  would. 
I  wonder  what  it  can  be." 

"  I  haven't  an  idea,"  said  Alvina. 

Both  women  were  so  retired,  they  had  heard  nothing  of 
James's  little  trips  down  to  Lumley.  So  they  watched  like 
cats  for  their  man's  return,  at  dinner-time. 

Miss  Pinnegar  saw  him  coming  along  talking  excitedly  to 
Mr.  May,  who,  all  in  grey,  with  his  chest  perkily  stuck  out 
like  a  robin,  was  looking  rather  pinker  than  usual.  Having 
come  to  an  agreement,  he  had  ventured  on  whiskey  and  soda 
in  honour,  and  James  had  actually  taken  a  glass  of  port. 

"Alvina!  "  Miss  Pinnegar  called  discreetly  down  the  shop. 
"Alvina!  Quick!" 

Alvina  flew  down  to  peep  round  the  corner  of  the  shop 


HOUGHTON'S  LAST  ENDEAVOUR      111 

window.  There  stood  the  two  men,  Mr.  May  like  a  perky, 
pink-faced  grey  bird  standing  cocking  his  head  in  attention 
to  James  Houghton,  and  occasionally  catching  James  by  the 
lapel  of  his  coat,  in  a  vain  desire  to  get  a  word  in,  whilst 
James's  head  nodded  and  his  face  simply  wagged  with  ex- 
cited speech,  as  he  skipped  from  foot  to  foot,  and  shifted 
round  his  listener. 

"Who  ever  can  that  common-looking  man  be?  "  said  Miss 
Pinnegar,  her  heart  going  down  to  her  boots. 

"  I  can't  imagine,"  said  Alvina,  laughing  at  the  comic  sight. 

"Don't  you  think  he's  dreadful?"  said  the  poor  elderly 
woman. 

"Perfectly  impossible.  -Did  ever  you  see  such  a  pink 
face?  " 

"  And  the  braid  binding!  "  said  Miss  Pinnegar  in  indigna- 
tion. 

"  Father  might  almost  have  sold  him  the  suit,"  said  Alvina. 

"Let  us  hope  he  hasn't  sold  your  father,  that's  all,"  said 
Miss  Pinnegar. 

The  two  men  had  moved  a  few  steps  further  towards  home, 
and  the  women  prepared  to  flee  indoors.  Of  course  it  was 
frightfully  wrong  to  be  standing  peeping  in  the  high  street 
at  all.  But  who  could  consider  the  proprieties  now? 

"They've  stopped  again,"  said  Miss  Pinnegar,  recalling 
Alvina. 

The  two  men  were  having  a  few  more  excited  words,  their 
voices  just  audible. 

"I  do  wonder  who  he  can  be,"  murmured  Miss  Pinnegar 
miserably. 

"  In  the  theatrical  line,  I'm  sure,'f  declared  Alvina. 

"Do  you  think  so?"  said  Miss  Pinnegar.  "Can't  be! 
Can't  be!  " 

"  He  couldn't  be  anything  else,  don't  you  think?  " 

"  Oh  I  can't  believe  it,  I  can't." 

But  now  Mr.  May  had  laid  his  detaining  hand  on  James's 
arm.  And  now  he  was  shaking  his  employer  by  the  hand. 
And  now  James,  in  his  cheap  little  cap,  was  smiling  a  formal 
farewell.  And  Mr.  May*  with  a  graceful  wave  of  his  grey- 
suede-gloved  hand,  was  turning  back  to  the  Moon  and  Stars, 
strutting,  whilst  James  was  running  home  on  tip-toe,  in  his 
natural  hurry. 

Alvina  hastily  retreated,  but  Miss  Pinnegar  stood  it  out. 


112  THE  LOST  GIRL 

James  started  as  he  nipped  into  the  shop  entrance,  and  found 
her  confronting  him. 

"  Oh  —  Miss  Pinnegar !  "  he  said,  and  made  to  slip  by  her. 

"  Who  was  that  man?  "  she  asked  sharply,  as  if  James  were 
a  child  whom  she  could  endure  no  more. 

"Eh?     I  beg  your  pardon?  "  said  James,  starting  back. 

"Who  was  that  man?" 

"Eh?     Which  man?" 

James  was  a  little  deaf,  and  a  little  husky. 

"  The  man  — "  Miss  Pinnegar  turned  to  the  door.  "  There! 
That  man!  " 

James  also  came  to  the  door,  and  peered  out  as  if  he  ex- 
pected to  see  a  sight.  The  sight  of  Mr.  May's  tight  and  perky 
back,  the  jaunty  little  hat  and  the  grey  suede  hands  retreating 
quite  surprised  him.  He  was  angry  at  being  introduced  to 
the  sight. 

"Oh,"  he  said.  "That's  my  manager."  And  he  turned 
hastily  down  the  shop,  asking  for  his  dinner. 

Miss  Pinnegar  stood  for  some  moments  in  pure  oblivion  in 
the  shop  entrance.  Her  consciousness  left  her.  When  she 
recovered,  she  felt  she  was  on  the  brink  of  hysteria  and  col- 
lapse. But  she  hardened  herself  once  more,  though  the  effort 
cost  her  a  year  of  her  life.  She  had  never  collapsed,  she  had 
never  fallen  into  hysteria. 

She  gathered  herself  together,  though  bent  a  little  as  from 
a  blow,  and,  closing  the  shop  door,  followed  James  to  the 
living  room,  like  the  inevitable.  He  was  eating  his  dinner, 
and  seemed  oblivious  of  her  entry.  There  was  a  smell  of 
Irish  stew. 

"  What  manager?  "  said  Miss  Pinnegar,  short,  silent,  and 
inevitable  in  the  doorway. 

But  James  was  in  one  of  his  abstractions,  his  trances. 

"What  manager?  "  persisted  Miss  Pinnegar. 

But  he  still  bent  unknowing  over  his  plate  and  gobbled  his 
Irish  stew. 

"  Mr.  Houghton !  "  said  Miss  Pinnegar,  in  a  sudden  changed 
voice.  She  had  gone  a  livid  yellow  colour.  And  she  gave  a 
queer,  sharp  little  rap  on  the  table  with  her  hand. 

James  started.  He  looked  up  bewildered,  as  one  startled 
out  of  sleep. 

"  Eh?  "  he  said,  gaping.     "  Eh?  " 

"Answer  me,"  said  Miss  Pinnegar.     "What  manager?" 


HOUGHTON'S  LAST  ENDEAVOUR      113 

"Manager?     Eh?     Manager?     What  manager?  " 

She  advanced  a  little  nearer,  menacing  in  her  black  dress. 
James  shrank. 

"What  manager?"  he  re-echoed.  "My  manager.  The 
manager  of  my  cinema." 

Miss  Pinnegar  looked  at  him,  and  looked  at  him,  and  did 
not  speak.  In  that  moment  all  the  anger  which  was  due  to 
him  from  all  womanhood  was  silently  discharged  at  him,  like 
a  black  bolt  of  silent  electricity.  But  Miss  Pinnegar,  the 
engine  of  wrath,  felt  she  would  burst. 

"  Cinema !  Cinema !  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  — "  but  she 
was  really  suffocated,  the  vessels  of  her  heart  and  breast  were 
bursting.  She  had  to  lean  her  hand  on  the  table. 

It  was  a  terrible  moment.  She  looked  ghastly  and  terrible, 
with  her  mask-like  face  and  her  stony  eyes  and  her  bluish 
lips.  Some  fearful  thunderbolt  seemed  to  fall.  James  with- 
ered, and  was  still.  There  was  silence  for  minutes,  a  sus- 
pension. 

And  in  those  minutes,  she  finished  with  him.  She  finished 
with  him  for  ever.  When  she  had  sufficiently  recovered,  she 
went  to  her  chair,  and  sat  down  before  her  plate.  And  in  a 
while  she  began  to  eat,  as  if  she  were  alone. 

Poor  Alvina,  for  whom  this  had  been  a  dreadful  and  un- 
called-for moment,  had  looked  from  one  to  another,  and  had 
also  dropped  her  head  to  her  plate.  James  too,  with  bent 
head,  had  forgotten  to  eat.  Miss  Pinnegar  ate  very  slowly, 
alone. 

"Don't  you  want  your  dinner,  Alvina?  "  she  said  at  length. 

"  Not  as  much  as  I  did,"  said  Alvina. 

"  Why  not?  "  said  Miss  Pinnegar.  She  sounded  short, 
almost  like  Miss  Frost.  Oddly  like  Miss  Frost. 

Alvina  took  up  her  fork  and  began  to  eat  automatically. 

"  I  always  think,"  said  Miss  Pinnegar,  "  Irish  stew  is  more 
tasty  with  a  bit  of  Swede  in  it." 

"So  do  I,  really,"  said  Alvina.  "But  Swedes  aren't  come 
yet." 

"Oh!     Didn't  we  have  some  on  Tuesday?  " 

"  No,  they  were  yellow  turnips  —  but  they  weren't  Swedes." 

"  Well  then,  yellow  turnip.  I  like  a  little  yellow  turnip," 
said  Miss  Pinnegar. 

"  I  might  have  put  some  in,  if  I'd  known,"  said  Alvina. 

"  Yes.     We  will  another  time,"  said  Miss  Pinnegar. 


114  THE  LOST  GIRL 

Not  another  word  about  the  cinema:  not  another  breath. 
As  soon  as  James  had  eaten  his  plum  tart,  he  ran  away. 

"  What  can  he  have  been  doing?  "  said  Alvina  when  he  had 
gone. 

"  Buying  a  cinema  show  —  and  that  man  we  saw  is  his  man- 
ager. It's  quite  simple." 

"  But  what  are  we  going  to  do  with  a  cinema  show?  "  said 
Alvina. 

"  It's  what  is  he  going  to  do.  It  doesn't  concern  me.  It's 
no  concern  of  mine.  I  shall  not  lend  him  anything,  I  shall 
not  think  about  it,  it  will  be  the  same  to  me  as  if  there  were 
no  cinema.  Which  is  all  I  have  to  say,"  announced  Miss 
Pinnegar. 

"  But  he's  gone  and  done  it,"  said  Alvina. 

"  Then  let  him  go  through  with  it.  It's  no  affair  of  mine. 
After  all,  your  father's  affairs  don't  concern  me.  It  would  be 
impertinent  of  me  to  introduce  myself  into  them." 

"  They  don't  concern  me  very  much,"  said  Alvina. 

"You're  different.  You're  his  daughter.  He's  no  connec- 
tion of  mine,  I'm  glad  to  say.  I  pity  your  mother." 

"  Oh,  but  he  was  always  alike,"  said  Alvina. 

"  That's  where  it  is,"  said  Miss  Pinnegar. 

There  was  something  fatal  about  her  feelings.  Once  they 
had  gone  cold,  they  would  never  warm  up  again.  As  well 
try  to  warm  up  a  frozen  mouse.  It  only  putrifies. 

But  poor  Miss  Pinnegar  after  this  looked  older,  and  seemed 
to  get  a  little  round-backed.  And  the  things  she  said  re- 
minded Alvina  so  often  of  Miss  Frost. 

James  fluttered  into  conversation  with  his  daughter  the  next 
evening,  after  Miss  Pinnegar  had  retired. 

"  I  told  you  I  had  bought  a  cinematograph  building,"  said 
James.  "We  are  negotiating  for  the  machinery  now:  the 
dynamo  and  so  on." 

"  But  where  is  it  to  be?  "  asked  Alvina. 

"  Down  at  Lumley.  I'll  take  you  and  show  you  the  site  to- 
morrow. The  building  —  it  is  a  frame-section  travelling  the- 
atre —  will  arrive  on  Thursday  —  next  Thursday." 

"  But  who  is  in  with  you,  father?  " 

"  I  am  quite  alone  —  quite  alone,"  said  James  Houghton. 
"  I  have  found  an  excellent  manager,  who  knows  the  whole 
business  thoroughly  —  a  Mr.  May.  Very  nice  man.  Very 


HOUGHTON'S  LAST  ENDEAVOUR      115 

"  Rather  short  and  dressed  in  grey?  " 

"Yes.  And  I  have  been  thinking  —  if  Miss  Pinnegar  will 
take  the  cash  and  issue  tickets:  if  she  will  take  over  the 
ticket-office:  and  you  will  play  the  piano:  and  if  Mr.  May 
learns  the  control  of  the  machine  —  he  is  having  lessons 
now  —  :  and  if  I  am  the  indoors  attendant,  we  shan't  need 
any  more  staff." 

"  Miss  Pinnegar  won't  take  the  cash,  father." 

"  Why  not?     Why  not?  " 

"  I  can't  say  why  not.  But  she  won't  do  anything  —  and 
if  I  were  you  I  wouldn't  ask  her." 

There  was  a  pause. 

"  Oh,  well,"  said  James,  huffy.     "  She  isn't  indispensable." 

And  Alvina  was  to  play  the  piano!  Here  was  a  blow  for 
her!  She  hurried  off  to  her  bedroom  to  laugh  and  cry  at 
once.  She  just  saw  herself  at  that  piano,  banging  off  the 
Merry  Widow  Waltz,  and,  in  tender  moments,  The  Rosary. 
Time  after  time,  The  Rosary.  While  the  pictures  flickered  and 
the  audience  gave  shouts  and  some  grubby  boy  called  "  Chot- 
let,  penny  a  bar!  Chot-let,  penny  a  bar!  Chot-let,  penny  a 
bar!  "  away  she  banged  at  another  tune. 

What  a  sight  for  the  gods!  She  burst  out  laughing.  And 
at  the  same  time,  she  thought  of  her  mother  and  Miss  Frost, 
and  she  cried  as  if  her  heart  would  break.  And  then  all 
kinds  of  comic  and  incongruous  tunes  came  into  her  head. 
She  imagined  herself  dressing  up  with  most  priceless  vari- 
ations. Linger  Longer  Lucy,  for  example.  She  began  to 
spin  imaginary  harmonies  and  variations  in  her  head,  upon 
the  theme  of  Linger  Longer  Lucy. 

"Linger  longer  Lucy,  linger  longer  Loo. 
How  I  love  to  linger  longer  linger  long  o'  you. 
Listen  while  I  sing,  love,  promise  you'll  be  true, 
And  linger  longer  longer  linger  linger  longer  Loo." 

All  the  tunes  that  used  to  make  Miss  Frost  so  angry.     All  the 
Dream  Waltzes  and  Maiden's  Prayers,  and  the  awful  songs. 

"For  in  Spooney-ooney  Island 
Is  there  any  one  cares  for  me? 
In  Spooney-ooney  Island 
Why  surely  there  ought  to  be — *' 

Poor  Miss  Frost!     Alvina  imagined  herself  leading  a  chorus 


116  THE  LOST  GIRL 

of  collier  louts,  in  a  bad  atmosphere  of  "  Woodbines  "  and 
oranges,  during  the  intervals  when  the  pictures  had  collapsed. 

"  How'd  you  like  to  spoon  with  me? 
How'd  you  Jike  to  spoon  with  me? 

(Why  ra-ther!) 

Underneath  the  oak-tree  nice  and  shady 
Calling  me  your  tootsey-wootsey  lady? 
How'd  you  like  to  hug  and  squeeze, 

(Just  try  me!) 

Dandle  me  upon  your  knee, 

Calling  me  your  little  lovey-dovey  — 

How'd  you  like  to  spoon  with  me? 

(Oh-h  —  Go  on!) 

Alvina  worked  herself  into  quite  a  fever,  with  her 
imaginings. 

In  the  morning  she  told  Miss  Pinnegar. 

"Yes,"  said  Miss  Pinnegar,  "you  see  me  issuing  tickets, 
don't  you?  Yes  —  well.  I'm  afraid  he  will  have  to  do  that 
part  himself.  And  you're  going  to  play  the  piano.  It's  a 
disgrace!  It's  a  disgrace!  It's  a  disgrace!  It's  a  mercy 
Miss  Frost  and  your  mother  are  dead.  He's  lost  every  bit 
of  shame  —  every  bit  —  if  he  ever  had  any  —  which  I  doubt 
very  much.  Well,  all  I  can  say,  I'm  glad  I  am  not  con- 
cerned. And  I'm  sorry  for  you,  for  being  his  daughter.  I'm 
heart  sorry  for  you,  I  am.  Well,  well  —  no  sense  of  shame  — 
no  sense  of  shame — " 

And  Miss  Pinnegar  padded  out  of  the  room. 

Alvina  walked  down  to  Lumley  and  was  shown  the  site 
and  was  introduced  to  Mr.  May.  He  bowed  to  her  in  his  best 
American  fashion,  and  treated  her  with  admirable  American 
deference. 

"Don't  you  think,"  he  said  to  her,  "it's  an  admirable 
scheme?  " 

"  Wonderful,"  she  replied. 

"  Of  cauce,"  he  said,  "  the  erection  will  be  a  merely  tem- 
porary one.  Of  cauce  it  won't  be  anything  to  look  at:  just  an 
old  wooden  travelling  theatre.  But  then  —  all  we  need  is  to 
make  a  start." 

"And  you  are  going  to  work  the  film?  "  she  asked. 

"  Yes,"  he  said  with  pride,  "  I  spend  every  evening  with 


HOUGHTON'S  LAST  ENDEAVOUR      117 

the  operator  at  Marsh's  in  Knarborough.  Very  interesting  I 
find  it  —  very  interesting  indeed.  And  you  are  going  to  play 
the  piano?  "  he  said,  perking  his  head  on  one  side  and  looking 
at  her  archly. 

"So   father  says,"  she  answered. 

"  But  what  do  you  say?  "  queried  Mr.  May. 

"  I  suppose  I  don't  have  any  say." 

"  Oh  but  surely.  Surely  you  won't  do  it  if  you  don't  wish 
to.  That  would  never  do.  Can't  we  hire  some  young  fel- 
low —  ?  "  And  he  turned  to  Mr.  Houghton  with  a  note  of 
query. 

"Alvina  can  play  as  well  as  anybody  in  Woodhouse,"  said 
James.  "We  mustn't  add  to  our  expenses.  And  wages  in 
particular  — " 

"But  surely  Miss  Houghton  will  have  her  wage.  The 
labourer  is  worthy  of  his  hire.  Surely!  Even  of  her  hire,  to 
put  it  in  the  feminine.  And  for  the  same  wage  you  could  get 
some  unimportant  fellow  with  strong  wrists.  I'm  afraid  it 
will  tire  Miss  Houghton  to  death  — " 

"  I  don't  think  so,"  said  James.  "  I  don't  think  so.  Many 
of  the  turns  she  will  not  need  to  accompany  — 

"  Well,  if  it  conies  to  that,"  said  Mr.  May,  "  I  can  accompany 
some  of  them  myself,  when  I'm  not  operating  the  film.  I'm 
not  an  expert  pianist  —  but  I  can  play  a  little,  you  know  — " 
And  he  trilled  his  fingers  up  and  down  an  imaginary  key- 
board in  front  of  Alvina,  cocking  his  eye  at  her  smiling  a 
little  archly. 

"  I'm  sure,"  he  continued,  "I  can  accompany  anything  ex- 
cept a  man  juggling  dinner-plates  —  and  then  I'd  be  afraid 
of  making  him  drop  the  plates.  But  songs  —  oh,  songs! 
Con  molto  espressione!  " 

And  •again  he  trilled  the  imaginary  keyboard,  and  smiled 
his  rather  fat  cheeks  at  Alvina. 

She  began  to  like  him.  There  was  something  a  little 
dainty  about  him,  when  you  knew  him  better  —  really  rather 
fastidious.  A  showman,  true  enough!  Blatant  too.  But 
fastidiously  so. 

He  came  fairly  frequently  to  Manchester  House  after  this. 
Miss  Pinnegar  was  rather  stiff  with  him  and  he  did  not  like 
her.  But  he  was  very  happy  sitting  chatting  tete-a-tete  with 
Alvina. 


118  THE  LOST  GIRL 

"  Where  is  your  wife?  "  said  Alvina  to  him. 

"My  wife!  Oh,  don't  speak  of  her"  he  said  comically. 
"  She's  in  London." 

"Why  not  speak  of  her?  "  asked  Alvina. 

"  Oh,  every  reason  for  not  speaking  of  her.  We  don't 
get  on  at  all  well,  she  and  I." 

"  What  a  pity,"  said  Alvina. 

"Dreadful  pity!  But  what  are  you  to  do?  "  He  laughed 
comically.  Then  he  became  grave.  "  No,"  he  said.  "  She's 
an  impossible  person." 

"  I  see,"  said  Alvina. 

"  I'm  sure  you  don't  see,"  said  Mr.  May.  "  Don't  — "  and 
here  he  laid  his  hand  on  Alvina's  arm — "don't  run  away 
with  the  idea  that  she's  immoral!  You'd  never  make  a  greater 
mistake.  Oh  dear  me,  no.  Morality's  her  strongest  point. 
Live  on  three  lettuce  leaves,  and  give  the  rest  to  the  char. 
That's  her.  Oh,  dreadful  times  we  had  in  those  first  years. 
We  only  lived  together  for  three  years.  But  dear  me!  how 
awful  it  was!  " 

"Why?" 

"  There  was  no  pleasing  the  woman.  She  wouldn't  eat. 
If  I  said  to  her  '  What  shall  we  have  for  supper,  Grace?  *  as 
sure  as  anything  she'd  answer  '  Oh,  I  shall  take  a  bath  when 
I  go  to  bed  —  that  will  be  my  supper.'  She  was  one  of  these 
advanced  vegetarian  women,  don't  you  know." 

"How  extraordinary!  "  said  Alvina. 

"Extraordinary!  I  should  think  so.  Extraordinary  hard 
lines  on  me.  And  she  wouldn't  let  me  eat  either.  She  fol- 
lowed me  to  the  kitchen  in  a  fury  while  I  cooked  for  myself. 
Why  imagine!  I  prepared  a  dish  of  champignons:  oh,  most 
beautiful  champignons,  beautiful  —  and  I  put  them  on  the 
stove  to  fry  in  butter:  beautiful  young  champignons.  I'm 
hanged  if  she  didn't  go  into  the  kitchen  while  my  back  was 
turned,  and  pour  a  pint  of  old  carrot-water  into  the  pan.  I 
was  furious.  Imagine! — beautiful  fresh  young  champig- 
nons — " 

"  Fresh  mushrooms,"  said  Alvina. 

"  Mushrooms  —  most  beautiful  things  in  the  world.  Oh ! 
don't  you  think  so?  "  And  he  rolled  his  eyes  oddly  to  heaven. 

"  They  are  good,"  said  Alvina. 

"  I  should  say  so.  And  swamped  —  swamped  with  her 
dirty  old  carrot  water.  Oh  I  was  so  angry.  And  all  she 


HOUGHTON'S  LAST  ENDEAVOUR      119 

could  say  was,  'Well,  I  didn't  want  to  waste  it!'  Didn't 
want  to  waste  her  old  carrot  water,  and  so  ruined  my  champig- 
nons. Can  you  imagine  such  a  person?  " 

"  It  must  have  been  trying." 

"  I  should  think  it  was.  I  lost  weight.  I  lost  I  don't  know 
how  many  pounds,  the  first  year  I  was  married  to  that  woman. 
She  hated  me  to  eat.  Why,  one  of  her  great  accusations 
against  me,  at  the  last,  was  when  she  said:  '  I've  looked  round 
the  larder,'  she  said  to  me,  '  and  seen  it  was  quite  empty,  and 
I  thought  to  myself:  Now  he  can't  cook  a  supper!  And  then 
you  did!  '  There!  What  do  you  think  of  that?  The  spite 
of  it!  '  And  then  you  did!  ' 

"  What  did  she  expect  you  to  live  on?  "  asked  Alvina. 

"  Nibble  a  lettuce  leaf  with  her,  and  drink  water  from 
the  tap  —  and  then  elevate  myself  with  a  Bernard  Shaw 
pamphlet.  That  was  the  sort  of  woman  she  was.  All  it 
gave  me  was  gas  in  the  stomach." 

"  So  overbearing !  "  said  Alvina. 

"  Oh !  "  he  turned  his  eyes  to  heaven,  and  spread  his  hands. 
"  I  didn't  believe  my  senses.  I  didn't  know  such  people  ex- 
isted. And  her  friends!  Oh  the  dreadful  friends  she  had  — 
these  Fabians!  Oh,  their  eugenics.  They  wanted  to  examine 
my  private  morals,  for  eugenic  reasons.  Oh,  you  can't  im- 
agine such  a  state.  Worse  than  the  Spanish  Inquisition.  And 
I  stood  it  for  three  years.  How  I  stood  it,  I  don't  know  — " 

"Now  don't  you  see  her?  " 

"  Never !  I  never  let  her  know  where  I  am !  But  I  support 
her,  of  cauce." 

"And  your  daughter?  " 

"  Oh,  she's  the  dearest  child  in  the  world.  I  saw  her  at 
a  friend's  when  I  came  back  from  America.  Dearest  little 
thing  in  the  world.  But  of  cauce  suspicious  of  me.  Treats 
me  as  if  she  didn't  know  me — " 

"What  a  pity!" 

"Oh  —  unbearable!"  He  spread  his  plump,  manicured 
hands,  on  one  finger  of  which  was  a  green  intaglio  ring. 

"  How  old  is  your  daughter?  " 

"Fourteen." 

"  What  is  her  name?  " 

"  Gemma.  She  was  born  in  Rome,  where  I  was  managing 
for  Miss  Maud  Callum,  the  danseuse" 

Curious  the  intimacy  Mr.  May  established  with  Alvina  at 


120  THE  LOST  GIRL 

once.  But  it  was  all  purely  verbal,  descriptive.  He  made  no 
physical  advances.  On  the  contrary,  he  was  like  a  dove- 
grey,  disconsolate  bird  pecking  the  crumbs  of  Alvina's  sym- 
pathy, and  cocking  his  eye  all  the  time  to  watch  that  she 
did  not  advance  one  step  towards  him.  If  he  had  seen  the 
least  sign  of  coming-on-ness  in  her,  he  would  have  fluttered 
off  in  a  great  dither.  Nothing  horrified  him  more  than  a 
woman  who  was  coming-on  towards  him.  It  horrified  him, 
it  exasperated  him,  it  made  him  hate  the  whole  tribe  of 
women:  horrific  two-legged  cats  without  whiskers.  If  he  had 
been  a  bird,  his  innate  horror  of  a  cat  would  have  been  such. 
He  liked  the  angel,  and  particularly  the  angel-mother  in 
woman.  Oh! — that  he  worshipped.  But  coming-on-ness! 

So  he  never  wanted  to  be  seen  out-of-doors  with  Alvina;  if 
he  met  her  in  the  street  he  bowed  and  passed  on:  bowed  very 
deep  and  reverential,  indeed,  but  passed  on,  with  his  little 
back  a  little  more  strutty  and  assertive  than  ever.  Decidedly 
he  turned  his  back  on  her  in  public. 

But  Miss  Pinnegar,  a  regular  old,  grey,  dangerous  she- 
puss,  eyed  him  from  the  corner  of  her  pale  eye,  as  he  turned 
tail. 

"  So  unmanly !  "  she  murmured.  "  In  his  dress,  in  his 
way,  in  everything  —  so  unmanly." 

"  If  I  was  you,  Alvina,"  she  said,  "  I  shouldn't  see  so  much 
of  Mr.  May,  in  the  drawing-room.  People  will  talk." 

"  I  should  almost  feel  flattered,"  laughed  Alvina. 

"What  do  you  mean?  "  snapped  Miss  Pinnegar. 

None  the  less,  Mr.  May  was  dependable  in  matters  of  busi- 
ness. He  was  up  at  half-past  five  in  the  morning,  and  by 
seven  was  -well  on  his  way.  He  sailed  like  a  stiff  little  ship 
before  a  steady  breeze,  hither  and  thither,  out  of  Woodhouse 
and  back  again,  and  across  from  side  to  side.  Sharp  and 
snappy,  he  was,  on  the  spot.  He  trussed  himself  up,  when 
he  was  angry  or  displeased,  and  sharp,  snip-snap  came  his 
words,  rather  like  scissors. 

"  But  how  is  it  —  "  he  attacked  Arthur  Witham  -  -"  that  the 
gas  isn't  connected  with  the  main  yet?  It  was  to  be  ready 
yesterday." 

"We've  had  to  wait  for  the  fixings  for  them  brackets," 
said  Arthur. 

"Had  to  wait  for  fixings!  But  didn't  you  know  a  fort- 
night ago  that  you'd  want  the  fixings?  " 


HOUGHTON'S  LAST  ENDEAVOUR      121 

"  I  thought  we  should  have  some  as  would  do." 

"Oh!  you  thought  so!  Really!  Kind  of  you  to  think  so. 
And  have  you  just  thought  about  those  that  are  coming,  or 
have  you  made  sure?  " 

Arthur  looked  at  him  sullenly.  He  hated  him.  But  Mr. 
May's  sharp  touch  was  not  to  be  foiled. 

"  I  hope  you'll  go  further  than  thinking"  said  Mr.  May. 
"  Thinking  seems  such  a  slow  process.  And  when  do  you  ex- 
pect the  fittings  — ?  " 

"  Tomorrow." 

"What!  Another  day!  Another  day  still!  But  you're 
strangely  indifferent  to  time,  in  your  line  of  business.  Oh! 
Tomorrow!  Imagine  it!  Two  days  late  already,  and  then 
tomorrow!  Well  I  hope  by  tomorrow  you  mean  Wednesday, 
and  not  tomorrow's  tomorrow,  or  some  other  absurd  and  fanci- 
ful date  that  you've  just  thought  about.  But  now,  do  have  the 
thing  finished  by  tomorrow—  "  here  he  laid  his  hind  cajoling 
on  Arthur's  arm.  "You  promise  me  it  will  all  :De  ready  by 
tomorrow,  don't  you?  " 

"Yes,  I'll  do  it  if  anybody  could  do  it." 

"  Don't  say  *  if  anybody  could  do  it.'  Say  it  shall  be 
done." 

"  It  shall  if  I  can  possibly  manage  it  — " 

"  Oh  —  very  well  then.  Mind  you  manage  it  —  and  thank 
you  very  much.  I  shall  be  most  obliged,  if  it  is  done." 

Arthur  was  annoyed,  but  he  was  kept  to  the  scratch.  And 
so,  early  in  October  the  place  was  ready,  and  Woodhouse  was 
plastered  with  placards  announcing  "  Houghton's  Pleasure 
Palace."  Poor  Mr.  May  could  not  but  see  an  irony  in  the 
Palace  part  of  the  phrase.  "  We  can  guarantee  the  pleasure" 
he  said.  "  But  personally,  I  feel  I  can't  take  the  responsi- 
bility for  the  palace." 

But  James,  to  use  the  vulgar  expression,  was  in  his  eye- 
holes. 

"  Oh,  father's  in  his  eye-holes,"  said  Alvina  to  Mr.  May. 

"  Oh !  "  said  Mr.  May,  puzzled  and  concerned. 

But  it  merely  meant  that  James  was  having  the  time  of 
his  life.  He  was  drawing  out  announcements.  First  was  a 
batch  of  vermilion  strips,  with  the  mystic  script,  in  big  black 
letters:  Houghton's  Picture  Palace,  underneath  which,  quite 
small:  Opens  at  Lumley  on  October  7th,  at  6:30  P.  M.  Every- 
where you  went,  these  vermilion  and  black  bars  sprang  from 


122  THE  LOST  GIRL 

the  wall  at  you.  Then  there  were  other  notices,  in  delicate 
pale-blue  and  pale  red,  like  a  genuine  theatre  notice,  giving 
full  programs.  And  beneath  these  a  broad-letter  notice  an- 
nounced, in  green  letters  on  a  yellow  ground :  "  Final  and 
Ultimate  Clearance  Sale  at  Houghton's,  Knarborough  Road, 
on  Friday,  September  30th.  Come  and  Buy  Without  Price." 

James  was  in  his  eye-holes.  He  collected  all  his  odds  and 
ends  from  every  corner  of  Manchester  House.  He  sorted  them 
in  heaps,  and  marked  the  heaps  in  his  own  mind.  And  then 
he  let  go.  He  pasted  up  notices  all  over  the  window  and  all 
over  the  shop:  "  Take  what  you  want  and  Pay  what  you  Like." 

He  and  Miss  Pinnegar  kept  shop.  The  women  flocked  in. 
They  turned  things  over.  It  nearly  killed  James  to  take  the 
prices  they  offered.  But  take  them  he  did.  But  he  exacted 
that  they  should  buy  one  article  at  a  time.  "  One  piece  at  a 
time,  if  you  don't  mind,"  he  said,  when  they  came  up  with 
their  three-a-penny  handfuls.  It  was  not  till  later  in  the  eve- 
ning that  he  relaxed  this  rule. 

Well,  by  eleven  o'clock  he  had  cleared  out  a  good  deal  — 
really,  a  very  great  deal  —  and  many  women  had  bought  what 
they  didn't  want,  at  their  own  figure.  Feverish  but  content, 
James  shut  the  shop  for  the  last  time.  Next  day,  by  eleven, 
he  had  removed  all  his  belongings,  the  door  that  connected  the 
house  with  the  shop  was  screwed  up  fast,  the  grocer  strolled 
in  and  looked  round  his  bare  extension,  took  the  key  from 
James,  and  immediately  set  his  boy  to  paste  a  new  notice  in 
the  window,  tearing  down  all  James's  announcements.  Poor 
James  had  to  run  round,  down  Knarborough  Road,  and  down 
Wellington  Street  as  far  as  the  Livery  Stable,  then  down  long 
narrow  passages,  before  he  could  get  into  his  own  house,  from 
his  own  shop. 

But  he  did  not  mind.  Every  hour  brought  the  first  per- 
formance of  his  Pleasure  Palace  nearer.  He  was  satisfied 
with  Mr.  May:  he  had  to  admit  that  he  was  satisfied  with 
Mr.  May.  The  Palace  stood  firm  at  last  —  oh,  it  was  so  rick- 
etty  when  it  arrived !  —  and  it  glowed  with  a  new  coat,  all 
over,  of  dark-red  paint,  like  ox-blood.  It  was  tittivated  up 
with  a  touch  of  lavender  and  yellow  round  the  door  and  round 
the  decorated  wooden  caving.  It  had  a  new  wooden  slope  up 
to  the  doors  —  and  inside,  a  new  wooden  floor,  with  red-velvet 
seats  in  front,  before  the  curtain,  and  old  chapel-pews  behind. 
The  collier  youths  recognized  the  pews. 


HOUGHTON'S  LAST  ENDEAVOUR      123 

"  Hey !  These  'ere's  the  pews  out  of  the  old  Primitive 
Chapel." 

"  Sorry  ah !     We'n  come  ter  hear  t'  parson." 

Theme  for  endless  jokes.  And  the  Pleasure  Palace  was 
christened,  in  some  lucky  stroke,  Houghton's  Endeavour,  a 
reference  to  that  particular  Chapel  effort  called  the  Christian 
Endeavour,  where  Alvina  and  Miss  Pinnegar  both  figured. 

"  Wheer  art  off ,  Sorry?" 

"Lumley." 

"  Houghton's  Endeavour?  " 

"Ah." 

"Rotten." 

So,  when  one  laconic  young  collier  accosted  another.  But 
we  anticipate. 

Mr.  May  had  worked  hard  to  get  a  program  for  the  first 
week.  His  pictures  were:  "The  Human  Bird,"  which  turned 
out  to  be  a  ski-ing  film  from  Norway,  purely  descriptive; 
"  The  Pancake,"  a  humorous  film :  and  then  his  grand  serial : 
"  The  Silent  Grip."  And  then,  for  Turns,  his  first  item  was 
Miss  Poppy  Traherne,  a  lady  in  innumerable  petticoats,  who 
could  whirl  herself  into  anything  you  like,  from  an  arum  lily 
in  green  stockings  to  a  rainbow  and  a  Catherine  wheel  and 
a  cup-and-saucer :  marvellous,  was  Miss  Poppy  Traherne.  The 
next  turn  was  The  Baxter  Brothers,  who  ran  up  and  down  each 
other's  backs  and  up  and  down  each  other's  front,  and  stood 
on  each  other's  heads  and  on  their  own  heads,  and  perched 
for  a  moment  on  each  other's  shoulders,  as  if  each  of  them 
was  a  flight  of  stairs  with  a  landing,  and  the  three  of  them 
were  three  flights,  three  storeys  up,  the  top  flight  continually 
running  down  and  becoming  the  bottom  flight,  while  the  mid- 
dle flight  collapsed  and  became  a  horizontal  corridor. 

Alvina  had  to  open  the  performance  by  playing  an  over- 
ture called  "Welcome  All":  a  ridiculous  piece.  She  was 
excited  and  unhappy.  On  the  Monday  morning  there  was  a 
rehearsal,  Mr.  May  conducting.  She  played  "  Welcome  All," 
and  then  took  the  thumbed  sheets  which  Miss  Poppy  Traherne 
carried  with  her.  Miss  Poppy  was  rather  exacting.  As  she 
whirled  her  skirts  she  kept  saying:  "A  little  faster,  please" — 
"  A  little  slower  " —  in  a  rather  haughty,  official  voice  that  was 
somewhat  muffled  by  the  swim  of  her  drapery.  "  Can  you 
give  it  expression?  "  she  cried,  as  she  got  the  arum  lily  in 
full  blow,  and  there  was  a  sound  of  real  ecstasy  in  her  tones. 


124  THE  LOST  GIRL 

But  why  she  should  have  called  "  Stronger !  Stronger !  "  as 
she  came  into  being  as  a  cup  and  saucer,  Alvina  could  not 
imagine:  unless  Miss  Poppy  was  fancying  herself  a  strong 
cup  of  tea. 

However,  she  subsided  into  her  mere  self,  panted  frantic- 
ally, and  then,  in  a  hoarse  voice,  demanded  if  she  was  in  the 
bare  front  of  the  show.  She  scorned  to  count  "  Welcome 
All."  Mr.  May  said  Yes.  She  was  the  first  item.  Where- 
upon she  began  to  raise  a  dust.  Mr.  Houghton  said,  hur- 
riedly interposing,  that  he  meant  to  make  a  little  opening 
speech.  Miss  Poppy  eyed  him  as  if  he  were  a  cuckoo-clock, 
and  she  had  to  wait  till  he'd  finished  cuckooing.  Then  she 
said: 

"  That's  not  every  night.  There's  six  nights  to  a  week." 
James  was  properly  snubbed.  It  ended  by  Mr.  May  meta- 
morphizing  himself  into  a  pug  dog:  he  said  he  had  got  the 
"  costoom  "  in  his  bag :  and  doing  a  lump-of -sugar  scene  with 
one  of  the  Baxter  Brothers,  as  a  brief  first  item.  Miss  Poppy's 
professional  virginity  was  thus  saved  from  outrage. 

At  the  back  of  the  stage  there  was  half-a-yard  of  curtain 
screening  the  two  dressing-rooms,  ladies  and  gents.  In  her 
spare  time  Alvina  sat  in  the  ladies'  dressing  room,  or  in  its 
lower  doorway,  for  there  was  not  room  right  inside.  She 
watched  the  ladies  making  up  —  she  gave  some  slight  assist- 
ance. She  saw  the  men's  feet,  in  their  shabby  pumps,  on  the 
other  side  of  the  curtain,  and  she  heard  the  men's  gruff  voices. 
Often  a  slangy  conversation  was  carried  on  through  the  cur- 
tain—  for  most  of  the  turns  were  acquainted  with  each  other: 
very  affable  before  each  other's  faces,  very  sniffy  behind  each 
other's  backs. 

Poor  Alvina  was  in  a  state  of  bewilderment.  She  was  ex- 
tremely nice  —  oh,  much  too  nice  with  the  female  turns. 
They  treated  her  with  a  sort  of  off-hand  friendliness,  and 
they  snubbed  and  patronized  her  and  were  a  little  spiteful 
with  her  because  Mr.  May  treated  her  with  attention  and 
deference.  She  felt  bewildered,  a  little  excited,  and  as  if  she 
was  not  herself. 

The  first  evening  actually  came.  Her  father  had  produced 
a  pink  crepe  de  Chine  blouse  and  a  back-comb  massed  with 
brilliants  —  both  of  which  she  refused  to  wear.  She  stuck  to 
her  black  blouse  and  black  shirt,  and  her  simple  hair-dressing. 
Mr.  May  said  "Of  cauce!  She  wasn't  intended  to  attract  at- 


HOUGHTON'S  LAST  ENDEAVOUR      125 

tention  to  herself."  Miss  Pinnegar  actually  walked  down  the 
hill  with  her,  and  began  to  cry  when  she  saw  the  ox-blood 
red  erection,  with  its  gas-flares  in  front.  It  was  the  first  time 
she  had  seen  it.  She  went  on  with  Alvina  to  the  little  stage 
door  at  the  back,  and  up  the  steps  into  the  scrap  of  dressing- 
room.  But  she  fled  out  again  from  the  sight  of  Miss  Poppy 
in  her  yellow  hair  and  green  knickers  with  green-lace  frills. 
Poor  Miss  Pinnegar!  She  stood  outside  on  the  trodden  grass 
behind  the  Band  of  Hope,  and  really  cried.  Lucidly  she  had 
put  a  veil  on. 

She  went  valiantly  round  to  the  front  entrance,  and  climbed 
the  steps.  The  crowd  was  just  coming.  There  was  James's 
face  peeping  inside  the  little  ticket-window. 

"One!"  he  said  officially,  pushing  out  the  ticket.  And 
then  he  recognized  her.  "  Oh,"  he  said,  "  You're  not  going  to 
pay." 

"Yes  I  am,"  she  said,  and  she  left  her  fourpence,  and 
James's  coppery,  grimy  fingers  scooped  it  in,  as  the  youth 
behind  Miss  Pinnegar  shoved  her  forward. 

"  Arf  way  down,  fourpenny,"  said  the  man  at  the  door, 
poking  her  in  the  direction  of  Mr.  May,  who  wanted  to  put 
her  in  the  red  velvet.  But  she  marched  down  one  of  the 
pews,  and  took  her  seat. 

The  place  was  crowded  with  a  whooping,  whistling,  excited 
audience.  The  curtain  was  down.  James  had  let  it  out  to 
his  fellow  tradesmen,  and  it  represented  a  patchwork  of  local 
adverts.  There  was  a  fat  porker  and  a  fat  pork-pie,  and  the 
pig  was  saying:  "You  all  know  where  to  find  me.  Inside  the 
crust  at  Frank  Churchill's,  Knarborough  Road,  Woodhouse." 
Round  about  the  name  of  W.  H.  Johnson  floated  a  bowler  hat, 
a  collar-and-necktie,  a  pair  of  braces  and  an  umbrella.  And 
so  on  and  so  on.  It  all  made  you  feel  very  homely.  But 
Miss  Pinnegar  was  sadly  hot  and  squeezed  in  her  pew. 

Time  came,  and  the  colliers  began  to  drum  their  feet.  It 
was  exactly  the  excited,  crowded  audience  Mr.  May  wanted. 
He  darted  out  to  drive  James  round  in  front  of  the  curtain. 
But  James,  fascinated  by  raking  in  the  money  so  fast,  could 
not  be  shifted  from  the  pay-box,  and  the  two  men  nearly  had 
a  fight.  At  last  Mr.  May  was  seen  shooing  James,  like  a  scuf- 
fled chicken,  down  the  side  gangway  and  on  to  the  stage. 

James  before  the  illuminated  curtain  of  local  adverts,  bow- 
ing and  beginning  and  not  making  a  single  word  audible! 


126  THE  LOST  GIRL 

The  crowd  quieted  itself,  the  eloquence  flowed  on.  The  crowd 
was  sick  of  James,  and  began  to  shuffle.  "  Come  down,  come 
down !  "  hissed  Mr.  May  frantically  from  in  front.  But  James 
did  not  move.  He  would  flow  on  all  night.  Mr.  May  waved 
excitedly  at  Alvina,  who  sat  obscurely  at  the  piano,  and  darted 
on  to  the  stage.  He  raised  his  voice  and  drowned  James. 
James  ceased  to  wave  his  penny-blackened  hands,  Alvina  struck 
up  "  Welcome  All  "  as  loudly  and  emphatically  as  she  could. 

And  all  the  time  Miss  Pinnegar  sat  like  a  sphinx  —  like  a 
sphinx.  What  she  thought  she  did  not  know  herself.  But 
stolidly  she  stared  at  James,  and  anxiously  she  glanced  side- 
ways at  the  pounding  Alvina.  She  knew  Alvina  had  to  pound' 
until  she  received  the  cue  that  Mr.  May  was  fitted  in  his  pug-} 
dog  "  Costoom." 

A  twitch  of  the  curtain.  Alvina  wound  up  her  final  flourish,' 
the  curtain  rose,  and:  I 

"Well  really!  "  said  Miss  Pinnegar,  6ut  IbiicL 

There  was4Mr.  May  as  a  pug  dog  begging,  too  lifelike  ancf 
too  impossible.  The  audience  shouted.  Alvina-  sat  with  her1 
hands  in  her  lap.  The  Pug  was  a  great  success. 

Curtain !  A  few  bars  of  Toreador  —  and  then  Miss' 
Poppy's  sheets  of  music.  Soft  music.  Miss  Poppy  was  on 
the  ground  under  a  green  scarf.  And  so  the  accumulating; 
dilation,  on  to  the  whirling  climax  of  the  perfect  arum  lily. 
Sudden  curtain,  and  a  yell  of  ecstasy  from  the  colliers.  Of; 
all  blossoms,  the  arum,  the  arum  lily  is  most  mystical  and 
portentous. 

Now  a  crash  and  rumble  from  Alvina's  piano.  This  is  the 
storm  from  whence  the  rainbow  emerges.  Up  goes  the  cur- 
tain —  Miss  Poppy  twirling  till  her  skirts  lift  as  in  a  breeze, 
rise  up  and  become  a  rainbow  above  her  now  darkened  legs. 
The  footlights  are  all  but  extinguished.  Miss  Poppy  is  all 
but  extinguished  also. 

The  rainbow  is  not  so  moving  as  the  arum  lily.  But  the 
Catherine  wheel,  done  at  the  last  moment  on  Hone  leg  and  therf 
an  amazing  leap  into  the  air  backwards,  again  brings  down 
the  house. 

Miss  Poppy  herself  sets  all  store  on  her  cup  and  saucer. 
But  the  audience,  vulgar  as  ever,  cannot  quite  see  it. 

And  so,  Alvina  slips  away  with  Miss  Poppy's  music-sheets, 
while  Mr.  May  sits  down  like  a  professional  at  the  piano  and 


HOUGHTON'S  LAST  ENDEAVOUR     127 

makes  things  fly  for  the  up-and-down-stairs  Baxter  Bros. 
Meanwhile,  Alvina's  pale  face  hovering  like  a  ghost  in  the 
side  darkness,  as  it  were  under  the  stage. 

The  lamps  go  out:  gurglings  and  kissings  —  and  then  the 
dither  on  the  screen :  "  The  Human  Bird,"  in  awful  shivery 
letters.  It's  not  a  very  good  machine,  and  Mr.  May  is  not 
a  very  good  operator.  Audience  distinctly  critical.  Lights 
up  —  an  "  Chot-let,  penny  a  bar!  Chot-let,  penny  a  bar!" 
even  as  in  Alvina's  dream  —  and  then  "  The  Pancake  " —  so 
the  first  half  over.  Lights  up  for  the  interval. 

Miss  Pinnegar  sighed  and  folded  her  hands.  She  looked 
neither  to  right  nor  to  left.  In  spite  of  herself,  in  spite  of 
outraged  shame  and  decency,  she  was  excited.  But  she  felt 
such  excitement  was  not  wholesome.  In  vain  the  boy  most 
pertinently  yelled  "  Chot-let "  at  her.  She  looked  neither 
to  right  nor  left.  But  when  she  saw  Alvina  nodding  to  her 
with  a  quick  smile  from  the  side  gangway  under  the  stage, 
she  almost  burst  into  tears.  It  was  too  much  for  her,  all  at 
once.  And  Alvina  looked  almost  indecently  excited.  As  she 
slipped  across  in  front  of  the  audience,  to  the  piano,  to  play 
the  seductive  "  Dream  Waltz !  "  she  looked  almost  fussy,  like 
her  father.  James,  needless  to  say,  flittered  and  hurried  hither 
and  thither  around  the  audience  and  the  stage,  like  a  wagtail 
on  the  brink  of  a  pool. 

The  second  half  consisted  of  a  comic  drama  acted  by  two 
Baxter  Bros.,  disguised  as  women,  and  Miss  Poppy  disguised 
as  a  man  —  with  a  couple  of  locals  thrown  in  to  do  the  guards- 
man and  the  Count.  This  went  very  well.  The  winding  up 
was  the  first  instalment  of  "  The  Silent  Grip." 

When  lights  went  up  and  Alvina  solemnly  struck  "  God 
Save  Our  Gracious  King,"  the  audience  was  on  its  feet  and  not 
very  quiet,  evidently  hissing  with  excitement  like  doughnuts 
in  the  pan  even  when  the  pan  is  taken  off  the  fire.  Mr.  Hough- 
ton  thanked  them  for  their  courtesy  and  attention,  and  hoped  — 
And  nobody  took  the  slightest  notice. 

Miss  Pinnegar  stayed  last,  waiting  for  Alvina.  And  Alvina, 
in  her  excitement,  waited  for  Mr.  May  and  her  father. 

Mr.  May  fairly  pranced  into  the  empty  hall. 

"  Well !  "  he  said,  shutting  both  his  fists  and  flourishing 
them  in  Miss  Pinnegar's  face.  "  How  did  it  go?  " 

"  I  think  it  went  very  well,"  she  said. 


128  THE  LOST  GIRL 

"Very  well!  I  should  think  so,  indeed.  It  went  like  a 
house  on  fire.  What?  Didn't  it?  "  And  he  laughed  a  high, 
excited  little  laugh. 

James  was  counting  pennies  for  his  life,  in  the  cash-place, 
and  dropping  them  into  a  Gladstone  bag.  The  others  had  to 
wait  for  him.  At  last  he  locked  his  bag. 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  May,  "done  well?  " 

"  Fairly  well,"  said  James,  huskily  excited.     "  Fairly  well." 

"  Only  fairly?  Oh-h!  "  And  Mr.  May  suddenly  picked  up 
the  bag.  James  turned  as  if  he  would  snatch  it  from  him. 
"Well!  Feel  that,  for  fairly  well!  "  said  Mr.  May,  handing 
the  bag  to  Alvina. 

"Goodness!  "  she  cried,  handing  it  to  Miss  Pinnegar. 

"  Would  you  believe  it?  "  said  Miss  Pinnegar,  relinquishing 
it  to  James.  But  she  spoke  coldly,  aloof. 

Mr.  May  turned  off  the  gas  at  the  meter,  came  talking 
through  the  darkness  of  the  empty  theatre,  picking  his  way 
with  a  flash-light. 

"C'est  le  premier  pas  qui  coute,"  he  said,  in  a  sort  of 
American  French,  as  he  locked  the  doors  and  put  the  key  in 
his  pocket.  James  tripped  silently  alongside,  bowed  under 
the  weight  of  his  Gladstone  bag  of  pennies. 

"  How  much  have  we  taken,  father?  "  asked  Alvina  gaily. 

"  I  haven't  counted,"  he  snapped. 

When  he  got  home  he  hurried  upstairs  to  his  bare  chamber. 
He  swept  his  table  clear,  and  then,  in  an  expert  fashion,  he 
seized  handfuls  of  coin  and  piled  them  in  little  columns  on 
his  board.  There  was  an  army  of  fat  pennies,  a  dozen  to  a 
column,  along  the  back,  rows  and  rows  of  fat  brown  rank- 
and-file.  In  front  of  these,  rows  of  slim  halfpence,  like  an 
advance-guard.  And  commanding  all,  a  stout  column  of  half- 
crowns,  a  few  stoutish  and  important  florin-figures,  like  general 
and  colonels,  then  quite  a  file  of  shillings,  like  so  many  cap- 
tains, and  a  little  cloud  of  silvery  lieutenant  sixpences.  Right 
at  the  end,  like  a  frail  drummer  boy,  a  thin  stick  of  three- 
penny pieces. 

There  they  all  were:  burly  dragoons  of  stout  pennies,  heavy 
and  holding  their  ground,  with  a  screen  of  halfpenny  light 
infantry,  officered  by  the  immovable  half-crown  general,  who  in 
his  turn  was  flanked  by  all  his  staff  of  florin  colonels  and 
shilling  captains,  from  whom  lightly  moved  the  nimble  six- 


HOUGHTON'S  LAST  ENDEAVOUR      129 

penny   lieutenants   all   ignoring  the  wan,  frail   Joey   of  the 
threepenny-bits. 

Time  after  time  James  ran  his  almighty  eye  over  his  army. 
He  loved  them.  He  loved  to  feel  that  his  table  was  pressed 
down,  that  it  groaned  under  their  weight.  He  loved  to  see 
the  pence,  like  innumerable  pillars  of  cloud,  standing  waiting 
to  lead  on  into  wildernesses  of  unopened  resource,  while  the 
silver,  as  pillars  of  light,  should  guide  the  way  down  the 
long  night  of  fortune.  Their  weight  sank  sensually  into  his 
muscle,  and  gave  him  gratification.  The  dark  redness  of 
bronze,  like  full-blooded  fleas,  seemed  alive  and  pulsing,  the 
silver  was  magic  as  if  winged. 


CHAPTER  VII 

NATCHA-KEE-TAWARA 

MR.  MAY  and  Alvina  became  almost  inseparable,  and  Wood- 
house  buzzed  with  scandal.  Woodhouse  could  not  believe  that 
Mr.  May  was  absolutely  final  in  his  horror  of  any  sort  of  com- 
ing-on-ness  in  a  woman.  It  could  not  believe  that  he  was  only 
so  fond  of  Alvina  because  she  was  like  a  sister  to  him,  poor, 
lonely,  harassed  soul  that  he  was:  a  pure  sister  who  really 
hadn't  any  body.  For  although  Mr.  May  was  rather  fond,  in 
an  epicurean  way,  of  his  own  body,  yet  other  people's  bodies 
rather  made  him  shudder.  So  that  his  grand  utterance  on 
Alvina  was :  "  She's  not  physical,  she's  mental." 

He  even  explained  to  her  one  day  how  it  was,  in  his  naive 
fashion. 

"There  are  two  kinds  of  friendships,'1  he  said,  "physical 
and  mental.  The  physical  is  a  thing  of  the  moment.  Of 
cauce  you  quite  like  the  individual,  you  remain  quite  nice 
with  them,  and  so  on, —  to  keep  the  thing  as  decent  as  pos- 
sible. It  15  quite  decent,  so  long  as  you  keep  it  so.  But  it 
is  a  thing  of  the  moment.  Which  you  know.  It  may  last  a 
week  or  two,  or  a  month  or  two.  But  you  know  from  the 
beginning  it  is  going  to  end  —  quite  finally  —  quite  soon. 
You  take  it  for  what  it  is.  But  it's  so  different  with  the  mental 
friendships.  They  are  lasting.  They  are  eternal  —  if  any- 
thing human  (he  said  yuman)  ever  is  eternal,  ever  can  be 
eternal."  He  pressed  his  hands  together  in  an  odd  cherubic 
manner.  He  was  quite  sincere:  if  man  ever  can  be  quite 
sincere. 

Alvina  was  quite  content  to  be  one  of  his  mental  and 
eternal  friends,  or  rather  friendships  —  since  she  existed  in 
abstractu  as  far  as  he  was  concerned.  For  she  did  not  find 
him  at  all  physically  moving.  Physically  he  was  not  there: 
he  was  oddly  an  absentee.  But  his  naivete  roused  the  ser- 
pent's tooth  of  her  bitter  irony. 

"And  your  wife?  "  she  said  to  him. 

130 


NATCHA-KEE-TAWARA  131 

**0h,  my  wife!  Dreadful  thought!  There  I  made  the 
great  mistake  of  trying  to  find  the  two  in  one  person!  And 
didn't  I  fall  between  two  stools!  Oh  dear,  didn't  I?  Oh,  I 
fell  between  the  two  stools  beautifully,  beautifully !  And  then 
— she  nearly  set  the  stools  on  top  of  me.  I  thought  I  should 
never  get  up  again.  When  I  was  physical,  she  was  mental  — 
Bernard  Shaw  and  cold  baths  for  supper!  — and  when  I  was 
mental  she  was  physical,  and  threw  her  arms  round  my  neck. 
In  the  morning,  mark  you.  Always  in  the  morning,  when  I 
was  on  the  alert  for  business.  Yes,  invariably,  What  do  you 
think  of  it?  Could  the  devil  himself  have  invented  anything 
more  trying?  Oh  dear  me,  don't  mention  it.  Oh,  what  a 
time  I  had!  Wonder  I'm  alive.  Yes,  really!  Although  you 
smile." 

Alvina  did  more  than  smile.  She  laughed  outright.  And 
yet  she  remained  good  friends  with  the  odd  little  man. 

He  bought  himself  a  new,  smart  overcoat,  that  fitted  his 
figure,  and  a  new  velour  hat.  And  she  even  noticed,  one  day 
when  he  was  curling  himself  up  cosily  on  the  sofa,  that  he  had 
pale  blue  silk  underwear,  and  purple  silk  suspenders.  She 
wondered  where  he  got  them,  and  how  he  afforded  them.  But 
there  they  were. 

James  seemed  for  the  time  being  wrapt  in  his  undertak- 
ing—  particularly  in  the  takings  part  of  it.  He  seemed  for 
the  time  being  contented  —  or  nearly  so,  nearly  so.  Cer- 
tainly there  was  money  coming  in.  But  then  he  had  to  pay 
off  all  he  had  borrowed  to  buy  his  erection  and  its  furnish- 
ings, and  a  bulk  of  pennies  sublimated  into  a  very  small  £.s.d. 
account,  at  the  bank. 

The  Endeavour  was  successful  —  yes,  it  was  successful. 
But  not  overwhelmingly  so.  On  wet  nights  Woodhouse  did 
not  care  to  trail  down  to  Lumley.  And  then  Lumley  was  one 
of  those  depressed,  negative  spots  on  the  face  of  the  earth 
which  have  no  pull  at  all.  In  that  region  of  sharp  hills  with 
fine  hill-brows,  and  shallow,  rather  dreary  canal-valleys,  it  was 
the  places  on  the  hill-brows,  like  Woodhouse  and  Hathersedge 
and  Rapton  which  flourished,  while  the  dreary  places  down 
along  the  canals  existed  only  for  work-places,  not  for  life  and 

Sleasure.     It  was  just   like   James   to  have  planted  his   en- 
eavour  down  in  the  stagnant  dust  and  rust  of  potteries  and 
foundries,  where  no  illusion  could  bloom. 

He  had  dreamed  of  crowded  houses  every  night,  and  of 


132  THE  LOST  GIRL 

raised  prices.  But  there  was  no  probability  of  his  being  able 
to  raise  his  prices.  He  had  to  figure  lower  than  the  Wood- 
house  Empire.  He  was  second-rate  from  the  start.  His  hope 
now  lay  in  the  tramway  which  was  being  built  from  Knar- 
borough  away  through  the  country  —  a  black  country  indeed 
— through  Woodhouse  and  Lumley  and  Hathersedge,  to  Rap- 
ton.  When  once  this  tramway-system  was  working,  he  would 
have  a  supply  of  youths  and  lasses  always  on  tap,  as  it  were. 
So  he  spread  his  rainbow  wings  towards  the  future,  and  began 
to  say: 

"  When  we've  got  the  trams,  I  shall  buy  a  new  machine 
and  finer  lenses,  and  I  shall  extend  my  premises." 

Mr.  May  did  not  talk  business  to  Alvina.  He  was  terribly 
secretive  with  respect  to  business.  But  he  said  to  her  once, 
in  the  early  year  following  their  opening: 

"Well,  how  do  you  think  we're  doing,  Miss  Houghton?  " 

"  We're  not  doing  any  better  than  we  did  at  first,  I  think," 
she  said. 

" No,"  he  answered.  "No!  That's  true.  That's  perfectly 
true.  But  why?  They  seem  to  like  the  programs." 

"  I  think  they  do,"  said  Alvina.  "  I  think  they  like  them 
when  they're  there.  But  isn't  it  funny,  they  don't  seem  to 
want  to  come  to  them.  I  know  they  always  talk  as  if  we  were 
second-rate.  And  they  only  come  because  they  can't  get  to 
the  Empire,  or  up  to  Hathersedge.  We're  a  stop-gap.  I 
know  we  are." 

Mr.  May  looked  down  in  the  mouth.  He  cocked  his  blue 
eyes  at  her,  miserable  and  frightened.  Failure  began  to 
frighten  him  abjectly. 

"  Why  do  you  think  that  is?  "  he  said. 

"  I  don't  believe  they  like  the  turns,"  she  said. 

"  But  look  how  they  applaud  them !  Look  how  pleased  they 
are!  " 

"  I  know.  I  know  they  like  them  once  they're  there,  and 
they  see  them.  But  they  don't  come  again.  They  crowd  the 
Empire  —  and  the  Empire  is  only  pictures  now :  and  it's  much 
cheaper  to  run." 

He  watched  her  dismally. 

"  I  can't  believe  they  want  nothing  but  pictures.  I  can't 
believe  they  want  everything  in  tfie  flat,"  he  said,  coaxing  and 
miserable.  He  himself  was  not  interested  in  the  film.  His 
interest  was  still  the  human  interest  in  living  performers  and 


NATCHA-KEE-TAWARA  133 

their  living  feats.     "Why,"  he  continued,  "they  are  ever  so 
much  more  excited  after  a  good  turn,  than  after  any  film." 

"  I  know  they  are,"  said  Alvina.  "  But  I  don't  believe  they 
want  to  be  excited  in  that  way." 

"  In  what  way?  "  asked  Mr.  May  plaintively. 

"  By  the  things  which  the  artistes  do.  I  believe  they're 
jealous." 

"Oh  nonsense!  "  exploded  Mr.  May,  starting  as  if  he  had 
been  shot.  Then  he  laid  his  hand  on  her  arm.  "  But  forgive 
my  rudeness!  I  don't  mean  it,  of  cancel  But  do  you  mean 
to  say  that  these  collier  louts  and  factory  girls  are  jealous  of 
the  things  the  artistes  do,  because  they  could  never  do  them 
themselves?  " 

"  I'm  sure  they  are,"  said  Alvina. 

"  But  I  can't  believe  it,"  said  Mr.  May,  pouting  up  his 
mouth  and  smiling  at  her  as  if  she  were  a  whimsical  child. 
"  What  a  low  opinion  you  have  of  human  nature!  " 

"Have  I?"  laughed  Alvina.  "I've  never  reckoned  it  up. 
But  I'm  sure  that  these  common  people  here  are  jealous  if 
anybody  does  anything  or  has  anything  they  can't  have  them- 
selves." 

"  I  can't  believe  it,"  protested  Mr.  May.  "  Could  they  be  so 
silly!  And  then  why  aren't  they  jealous  of  the  extraordinary 
things  which  are  done  on  the  film?  " 

"  Because  they  don't  see  the  flesh-and-blood  people.  I'm 
sure  that's  it.  The  film  is  only  pictures,  like  pictures  in  the 
Daily  Mirror.  And  pictures  don't  have  any  feelings  apart 
from  their  own  feelings.  I  mean  the  feelings  of  the  people 
who  watch  them.  Pictures  don't  have  any  life  except  in  the 
people  who  watch  them.  And  that's  why  they  like  them. 
Because  they  make  them  feel  that  they  are  everything." 

"  The  pictures  make  the  colliers  and  lasses  feel  that  they 
themselves  are  everything?  But  how?  They  Identify  them- 
selves with  the  heroes  and  heroines  on  the  screen?  " 

"  Yes  —  they  take  it  all  to  themselves  —  and  there  isn't 
anything  except  themselves.  I  know  it's  like  that.  It's  be- 
cause they  can  spread  themselves  over  a  film,  and  they  can't 
over  a  living  performer.  They're  up  against  the  performer 
himself.  And  they  hate  it." 

Mr.  May  watched  her  long  and  dismally. 

"I  can't  believe  people  are  like  that!  — sane  people!  "  he 
said.  "  Why,  to  me  the  whole  joy  is  in  the  living  personality, 


134  THE  LOST  GIRL 

the  curious  personality  of  the  artiste.  That's  what  I  enjoy  so 
much." 

"  I  know.     But  that's  where  you're  different  from  them." 

"But  am  I?" 

"Yes.     You're  not  as  up  to  the  mark  as  they  are." 

"  Not  up  to  the  mark?  What  do  you  mean?  Do  you  mean 
they  are  more  intelligent?  " 

"No,  but  they're  more  modern.  You  like  things  which 
aren't  yourself.  But  they  don't.  They  hate  to  admire  any- 
thing that  they  can't  take  to  themselves.  They  hate  anything 
that  isn't  themselves.  And  that's  why  they  like  pictures.  It's 
all  themselves  to  them,  all  the  time." 

He  still  puzzled. 

"  You  know  I  don't  follow  you,"  he  said,  a  little  mocking, 
as  if  she  were  making  a  fool  of  herself. 

"  Because  you  don't  know  them.  You  don't  know  the  com- 
mon people.  You  don't  know  how  conceited  they  are." 

He  watched  her  a  long  time. 

"  And  you  think  we  ought  to  cut  out  the  variety,  and  give 
nothing  but  pictures,  like  the  Empire?  "  he  said. 

"  I  believe  it  takes  best,"  she  said. 

"And  costs  less,"  he  answered.  "But  then!  It's  so  dull. 
Oh  my  word,  it's  so  dull.  I  don't  think  I  could  bear  it." 

"  And  our  pictures  aren't  good  enough,"  she  said.  "  We 
should  have  to  get  a  new  machine,  and  pay  for  the  expensive 
films.  Our  pictures  do  shake,  and  our  films  are  rather 
ragged." 

"  But  then,  surely  they're  good  enough !  "  he  said. 

That  was  how  matters  stood.  The  Endeavour  paid  its  way, 
and  made  just  a  margin  of  profit  —  no  more.  Spring  went  on 
to  summer,  and  then  there  was  a  very  shadowy  margin  of 
profit.  But  James  was  not  at  all  daunted.  He  was  waiting 
now  for  the  trams,  and  building  up  hopes  since  he  could  not 
build  in  bricks  and  mortar. 

The  navvies  were  busy  in  troops  along  the  Knarborough 
Road,  and  down  Lumley  Hill.  Alvina  became  quite  used 
to  them.  As  she  went  down  the  hill  soon  after  six  o'clock  in 
the  evening,  she  met  them  trooping  home.  And  some  of  them 
she  liked.  There  was  an  outlawed  look  about  them  as  they 
swung  along  the  pavement  —  some  of  them;  and  there  was  a 
certain  lurking  set  of  the  head  which  rather  frightened  her 
because  it  fascinated  her.  There  was  one  tall  young  fellow 


NATCHA-KEE-TAWARA  135 

with  a  red  face  and  fair  hair,  who  looked  as  if  he  had  fronted 
the  seas  and  the  arctic  sun.  He  looked  at  her.  They  knew 
each  other  quite  well,  in  passing.  And  he  would  glance  at 
perky  Mr.  May.  Alvina  tried  to  fathom  what  the  young  fel- 
low's look  meant.  She  wondered  what  he  thought  of  Mr. 
May. 

She  was  surprised  to  hear  Mr.  May's  opinion  of  the  navvy. 

"  He's  a  handsome  young  man,  now !  "  exclaimed  her  com- 
panion one  evening  as  the  navvies  passed.  And  all  three 
turned  round,  to  find  all  three  turning  round.  Alvina  laughed, 
and  made  eyes.  At  that  moment  she  would  cheerfully  have 
gone  along  with  the  navvy.  She  was  getting  so  tired  of  Mr. 
May's  quiet  prance. 

On  the  whole,  Alvina  enjoyed  the  cinema  and  the  life  it 
brought  her.  She  accepted  it.  And  she  became  somewhat 
vulgarized  in  her  bearing.  She  was  declossee:  she  had  lost 
her  class  altogether.  The  other  daughters  of  respectable 
tradesmen  avoided  her  now,  or  spoke  to  her  only  from  a  dis- 
tance. She  was  supposed  to  be  "  carrying  on  "  with  Mr.  May. 

Alvina  did  not  care.  She  rather  liked  it.  She  liked  being 
declassee.  She  liked  feeling  an  outsider.  At  last  she  seemed 
to  stand  on  her  own  ground.  She  laughed  to  herself  as  she 
went  back  and  forth  from  Woodhouse  to  Lumley,  between 
Manchester  House  and  the  Pleasure  Palace.  She  laughed 
when  she  saw  her  father's  theatre-notices  plastered  about. 
She  laughed  when  she  saw  his  thrilling  announcements  in  the 
Woodhouse  Weekly.  She  laughed  when  she  knew  that  all  the 
Woodhouse  youths  recognized  her,  and  looked  on  her  as  one 
of  their  inferior  entertainers.  She  was  off  the  map:  and 
she  liked  it. 

For  after  all,  she  got  a  good  deal  of  fun  out  of  it.  There 
was  not  only  the  continual  activity.  There  were  the  artistes. 
Every  week  she  met  a  new  set  of  stars  —  three  or  four  as  a 
rule.  She  rehearsed  with  them  on  Monday  afternoons,  and 
she  saw  them  every  evening,  and  twice  a  week  at  matinees. 
James  now  gave  two  performances  each  evening  —  and  he 
always  had  some  audience.  So  that  Alvina  had  opportunity 
to  come  into  contact  with  all  the  odd  people  of  the  inferior 
stage.  She  found  they  were  very  much  of  a  type:  a  little 
frowsy,  a  little  flea-bitten  as  a  rule,  indifferent  to  ordinary 
morality,  and  philosophical  even  if  irritable.  They  were 
often  very  irritable.  And  they  had  always  a  certain  fund 


136  THE  LOST  GIRL 

of  callous  philosophy.  Alvina  did  not  like  them  —  you  were 
not  supposed,  really,  to  get  deeply  emotional  over  them. 
But  she  found  it  amusing  to  see  them  all  and  know  them  all. 
It  was  so  different  from  Woodhouse,  where  everything  was 
priced  and  ticketed.  These  people  were  nomads.  They  didn't 
care  a  straw  who  you  were  or  who  you  weren't.  They  had  a 
most  irritable  professional  vanity,  and  that  was  all.  It  was 
most  odd  to  watch  them.  They  weren't  very  squeamish.  If 
the  young  gentlemen  liked  to  peep  round  the  curtain  when  the 
young  lady  was  in  her  knickers:  oh,  well,  she  rather  roundly 
told  them  off,  perhaps,  but  nobody  minded.  The  fact  that 
ladies  wore  knickers  and  black  silk  stockings  thrilled  nobody, 
any  more  than  grease-paint  or  false  moustaches  thrilled.  It 
was  all  part  of  the  stock-in-trade.  As  for  immorality  —  well, 
what  did  it  amount  to?  Not  a  great  deal.  Most  of  the  men 
cared  far  more  about  a  drop  of  whiskey  than  about  any  more 
carnal  vice,  and  most  of  the  girls  were  good  pals  with  each 
other,  men  were  only  there  to  act  with:  even  if  the  act  was 
a  private  love-farce  of  an  improper  description.  What's  the 
odds?  You  couldn't  get  excited  about  it:  not  as  a  rule. 

Mr.  May  usually  took  rooms  for  the  artistes  in  a  house 
down  in  Lumley.  When  any  one  particular  was  coming,  he 
would  go  to  a  rather  better-class  widow  in  Woodhouse.  He 
never  let  Alvina  take  any  part  in  the  making  of  these  arrange- 
ments, except  with  the  widow  in  Woodhouse,  who  had  long 
ago  been  a  servant  at  Manchester  House,  and  even  now  came 
in  to  do  cleaning. 

Odd,  eccentric  people  they  were,  these  entertainers.  Most 
of  them  had  a  streak  of  imagination,  and  most  of  them  drank. 
Most  of  them  were  middle-aged.  Most  of  them  had  an  ab- 
stracted manner;  in  ordinary  life,  they  seemed  left  aside, 
somehow.  Odd,  extraneous  creatures,  often  a  little  depressed, 
feeling  life  slip  away  from  them.  The  cinema  was  killing 
them. 

Alvina  had  quite  a  serious  flirtation  with  a  man  who  played 
a  flute  and  piccolo.  He  was  about  fifty  years  old,  still  hand- 
some, and  growing  stout.  When  sober,  he  was  completely 
reserved.  When  rather  drunk,  he  talked  charmingly  and 
amusingly  —  oh,  most  charmingly.  Alvina  quite  loved  him. 
But  alas,  how  he  drank!  But  what  a  charm  he  had!  He 
went,  and  she  saw  him  no  more. 

The  usual  rather  American-looking,  clean-shaven,  slightly 


NATCHA-KEE-TAWARA  137 

pasty  young  man  left  Alvina  quite  cold,  though  he  had  an 
amiable  and  truly  chivalrous  galanterie.  He  was  quite  like- 
able. But  so  unattractive.  Alvina  was  more  fascinated  by 
the  odd  fish:  like  the  lady  who  did  marvellous  things  with 
six  ferrets,  or  the  Jap  who  was  tattooed  all  over,  and  had  the 
most  amazing  strong  wrists,  so  that  he  could  throw  down  any 
collier,  with  one  turn  of  the  hand.  Queer  cuts  these!  — but 
just  a  little  bit  beyond  her.  She  watched  them  rather  from 
a  distance.  She  wished  she  could  jump  across  the  distance. 
Particularly  with  the  Jap,  who  was  almost  quite  naked,  but 
clothed  with  the  most  exquisite  tattooing.  Never  would  she 
forget  the  eagle  that  flew  with  terrible  spread  wings  between 
his  shoulders,  or  the  strange  mazy  pattern  that  netted  the 
roundness  of  his  buttocks.  He  was  not  very  large,  but  nicely 
shaped,  and  with  no  hair  on  his  smooth,  tattooed  body.  He 
was  almost  blue  in  colour  —  that  is,  his  tattooing  was  blue, 
with  pickings  of  brilliant  vermilion :  as  for  instance  round  the 
nipples,  and  in  a  strange  red  serpent's- jaws  over  the  navel.  A 
serpent  went  round  his  loins  and  haunches.  He  told  her  how 
many  times  he  had  had  blood-poisoning,  during  the  process  of 
his  tattooing.  He  was  a  queer,  black-eyed  creature,  with  a 
look  of  silence  and  toad-like  lewdness.  He  frightened  her. 
But  when  he  was  dressed  in  common  clothes,  and  was  just  a 
cheap,  shoddy-looking  European  Jap,  he  was  more  frighten- 
ing still.  For  his  face  —  he  was  not  tattooed  above  a  cer- 
tain ring  low  on  his  neck  —  was  yellow  and  flat  and  basking 
with  one  eye  open,  like  some  age-old  serpent.  She  felt  he 
was  smiling  horribly  all  the  time:  lewd,  unthinkable.  A 
strange  sight  he  was  in  Woodhouse,  on  a  sunny  morning;  a 
shabby-looking  bit  of  riff-raff  of  the  East,  rather  down  at  the 
heel.  Who  could  have  imagined  the  terrible  eagle  of  his 
shoulders,  the  serpent  of  his  loins,  his  supple,  magic  skin? 

The  summer  passed  ag?in,  and  autumn.  Winter  was  a 
better  time  for  James  Houghton.  The  trams,  moreover,  would 
begin  to  run  in  January. 

He  wanted  to  arrange  a  good  program  for  the  week  when 
the  trams  started.  A  long  time  ahead,  Mr.  May  prepared  it. 
The  one  item  was  the  Natcha-Kee-Tawara  Troupe.  The 
Natcha-Kee-Tawara  Troupe  consisted  of  five  persons,  Madame 
Rochard  and  four  young  men.  They  were  a  strictly  Red 
Indian  troupe.  But  one  of  the  young  men,  the  German  Swiss, 
was  a  famous  yodeller,  and  another,  the  French  Swiss,  was  a 


138  THE  LOST  GIRL 

good  comic  with  a  French  accent,  whilst  Madame  and  the 
German  did  a  screaming  two-person  farce.  Their  great  turn, 
of  course,  was  the  Natcha-Kee-Tawara  Red  Indian  scene. 

The  Natcha-Kee-Tawaras  were  due  in  the  third  week  in 
January,  arriving  from  the  Potteries  on  the  Sunday  evening. 
When  Alvina  came  in  from  Chapel  that  Sunday  evening,  she 
found  her  widow,  Mrs.  Rollings,  seated  in  the  living  room 
talking  with  James,  who  had  an  anxious  look.  Since  opening 
the  Pleasure  Palace  James  was  less  regular  at  Chapel.  And 
moreover,  he  was  getting  old  and  shaky,  and  Sunday  was  the 
one  evening  he  might  spend  in  peace.  Add  that  on  this  par- 
ticular black  Sunday  night  it  was  sleeting  dismally  outside, 
and  James  had  already  a  hit  of  a  cough,  and  we  shall  see 
that  he  did  right  to  stay  at  home. 

Mrs.  Rollings  sat  nursing  a  bottle.  She  was  to  go  to  the 
chemist  for  some  cough-cure,  because  Madame  had  got  a  bad 
cold.  The  chemist  was  gone  to  Chapel  —  he  wouldn't  open 
till  eight. 

Madame  and  the  four  young  men  had  arrived  at  about  six. 
Madame,  said  Mrs.  Rollings,  was  a  little  fat  woman,  and  she 
was  complaining  all  the  time  that  she  had  got  a  cold  on  her 
chest,  laying  her  hand  on  Pier  chest  and  trying  her  breathing 
and  going  "  He-e-e-er !  Herr !  "  to  see  if  she  could  breathe 
properly.  She,  Mrs.  Rollings,  had  suggested  that  Madame 
should  put  her  feet  in  hot  mustard  and  water,  but  Madame  said 
she  must  have  something  to  clear  her  chest.  The  four  young 
men  were  four  nice  civil  young  fellows.  They  evidently  liked 
Madame.  Madame  had  insisted  on  cooking  the  chops  for  the 
young  men.  She  herself  had  eaten  one,  but  she  laid  her  hand 
on  her  chest  when  she  swallowed.  One  of  the  young  men  had 
gone  out  to  get  her  some  brandy,  and  he  had  come  back  with 
half-a-dozen  large  bottles  of  Bass  as  well. 

Mr.  Houghton  was  very  much  concerned  over  Madame's 
cold.  He  asked  the  same  questions  again  and  again,  to  try 
and  make  sure  how  bad  it  was.  But  Mrs.  Rollings  didn't 
seem  quite  to  know.  James  wrinkled  his  brow.  Supposing 
Madame  could  not  take  her  part!  He  was  most  anxious. 

"  Do  you  think  you  might  go  across  with  Mrs.  Rollings  and 
see  how  this  woman  is,  Alvina?  "  he  said  to  his  daughter. 

"  I  should  think  you'll  never  turn  Alvina  out  on  such  a 
night,"  said  Miss  Pinnegar.  "And  besides,  it  isn't  right. 
Where  is  Mr.  May?  It's  his  business  to  go." 


NATCHA-KEE-TAWARA  139 

"  Oh !  "  returned  Alvina.  "  7  don't  mind  going.  Wait  a 
minute,  I'll  see  if  we  haven't  got  some  of  those  pastilles  for 
burning.  If  it's  very  bad,  I  can  make  one  of  those  plasters 
mother  used." 

And  she  ran  upstairs.  She  was  curious  to  see  what  Madame 
and  her  four  young  men  were  like. 

With  Mrs.  Rollings  she  called  at  the  chemist's  back  door, 
and  then  they  hurried  through  the  sleet  to  the  widow's  dwelling. 
It  was  not  far.  As  they  went  up  the  entry  they  heard  the 
sound  of  voices.  But  in  the  kitchen  all  was  quiet.  The  voices 
came  from  the  front  room. 
Mrs.  Rollings  tapped. 

"  Come  in !  "  said  a  rather  sharp  voice.  Alvina  entered  on 
the  widow's  heels. 

"  I've  brought  you  the  cough  stuff,"  said  the  widow.  "  And 
Miss  Huff 'n's  come  as  well,  to  see  how  you  was." 

Four  young  men  were  sitting  round  the  table  in  their  shirt- 
sleeves, with  bottles  of  Bass.  There  was  much  cigarette  smoke. 
By  the  fire,  which  was  burning  brightly,  sat  a  plump,  pale 
woman  with  dark  bright  eyes  and  finely-drawn  eyebrows:  she 
might  be  any  age  between  forty  and  fifty.  There  were  grey 
threads  in  her  tidy  black  hair.  She  was  neatly  dressed  in  a 
well-made  black  dress  with  a  small  lace  collar.  There  was  a 
slight  look  of  self-commiseration  on  her  face.  She  had  a 
cigarette  between  her  drooped  fingers. 

She  rose  as  if  with  difficulty,  and  held  out  her  plump  hand, 
on  which  four  or  five  rings  showed.  She  had  dropped  the 
cigarette  unnoticed  into  the  hearth. 

"  How  do  you  do,"  she  said.     "  I  didn't  catch  your  name." 
Madame's  voice  was  a  little  plaintive  and  plangent  now,  like 
a  bronze  reed  mournfully  vibrating. 
"  Alvina  Houghton,"  said  Alvina. 

"  Daughter  of  him  as  owns  the  thee-etter  where  you're 
goin'  to  act,"  interposed  the  widow. 

"Oh  yes!  Yes!  I  see.  Miss  Houghton.  I  didn't  know 
how  it  was  said.  Huff  ton  —  yes  ?  Miss  Houghton.  I've  got 
a  bad  cold  on  my  chest — "  laying  her  plump  hand  with  the 
rings  on  her  plump  bosom.  "  But  let  me  introduce  you  to  my 
young  men  —  A  wave  of  the  plump  hand,  whose  forefinger 
was  very  slightly  cigarette-stained,  towards  the  table. 

The  four  young  men  had  risen,  and  stood  looking  at  Alvina 
and  Madame.  The  room  was  small,  rather  bare,  with  horse- 


140  THE  LOST  GIRL 

hair  and  white-crochet  antimacassars  and  a  linoleum  floor. 
The  table  also  was  covered  with  a  brightly-patterned  American 
oil-cloth,  shiny  but  clean.  A  naked  gas-jet  hung  over  it.  For 
furniture,  there  were  just  chairs,  arm-chairs,  table,  and  a  horse- 
hair antimacassar-ed  sofa.  Yet  the  little  room  seemed  very 
full  —  full  of  people,  young  men  with  smart  waistcoats  and 
ties,  but  without  coats. 

"  That  is  Max,"  said  Madame.  "  I  shall  tell  you  only  their 
names,  and  not  their  family  names,  because  that  is  easier 
for  you — " 

In  the  meantime  Max  had  bowed.  He  was  a  tall  Swiss  with 
almond  eyes  and  a  flattish  face  and  a  rather  stiff,  ramrod  figure 

"And  that  is  Louis — "  Louis  bowed  gracefully.  He  was 
a  Swiss  Frenchman,  moderately  tall,  with  prominent  cheek- 
bones and  a  wing  of  glossy  black  hair  falling  on  his  temple. 

"  And  that  is  Geoffroi  —  Geoffrey  — "  Geoffrey  made  his 
bow  —  a  broad-shouldered,  watchful,  taciturn  man  from  Al- 
pine France. 

"And  that  is  Francesco  —  Frank — "  Francesco  gave  a 
faint  curl  of  his  lip,  half  smile,  as  he  saluted  her  involuntarily 
in  a  military  fashion.  He  was  dark,  rather  tall  and  loose, 
with  yellow-tawny  eyes.  He  was  an  Italian  from  the  south. 
Madame  gave  another  look  at  him.  "He  doesn't  like  his 
English  name  of  Frank.  You  will  see,  he  pulls  a  face.  No, 
he  doesn't  like  it.  We  call  him  Ciccio  also  — "  But  Ciccio 
was  dropping  his  head  sheepishly,  with  the  same  faint  smile 
on  his  face,  half  grimace,  and  stooping  to  his  chair,  wanting 
to  sit  down. 

"  These  are  my  family  of  young  men,"  said  Madame.  "  We 
are  drawn  from  three  races,  though  only  Ciccio  is  not  of  our 
mountains.  Will  you  please  to  sit  down." 

They  all  took  their  chairs.     There  was  a  pause. 

"My  young  men  drink  a  little  beer,  after  their  horrible 
journey.  As  a  rule,  I  do  not  like  them  to  drink.  But  to- 
night they  have  a  little  beer.  I  do  not  take  any  myself,  be- 
cause I  am  afraid  of  inflaming  myself."  She  laid  her  hand  on 
her  breast,  and  took  long,  uneasy  breaths.  "  I  feel  it.  I 
feel  it  here."  She  patted  her  breast.  "  It  makes  me  afraid 
for  tomorrow.  Will  you  perhaps  take  a  glass  of  beer?  Cic- 
cio, ask  for  another  glass  —  Ciccio,  at  the  end  of  the  table, 
did  not  rise,  but  looked  round  at  Alvina  as  if  he  presumed 
there  would  be  no  need  for  him  to  move.  The  odd,  super- 


NATCHA-KEE-TAWARA  141 

cilious  curl  of  the  lip  persisted.  Madame  glared  at  him.  But 
he  turned  the  handsome  side  of  his  cheek  towards  her,  with 
the  faintest  flicker  of  a  sneer. 

"  No,  thank  you.     I  never  take  beer,"  said  Alvina  hurriedly. 

"  No?  Never?  Oh !  "  Madame  folded  her  hands,  but  her 
black  eyes  still  darted  venom  at  Ciccio.  The  rest  of  the  young 
men  fingered  their  glasses  and  put  their  cigarettes  to  their  lips 
and  blew  the  smoke  down  their  noses,  uncomfortably. 

Madame  closed  her  eyes  and  leaned  back  a  moment.  Then 
her  face  looked  transparent  and  pallid,  there  were  dark  rings 
under  her  eyes,  the  beautifully-brushed  hair  shone  dark  like 
black  glass  above  her  ears.  She  was  obviously  unwell.  The 
young  men  looked  at  her,  and  muttered  to  one  another. 

"  I'm  afraid  your  cold  is  rather  bad,"  said  Alvina.  "  Will 
you  let  me  take  your  temperature?  " 

Madame  started  and  looked  frightened. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  think  you  should  trouble  to  do  that,"  she  said. 

Max,  the  tall,  highly-coloured  Swiss,  turned  to  her,  saying: 

"  Yes,  you  must  have  your  temperature  taken,  and  then  we 
s'll  know,  shan't  we.  I  had  a  hundred  and  five  when  we  were 
in  Redruth." 

Alvina  had  taken  the  thermometer  from  her  pocket.  Ciccio 
meanwhile  muttered  something  in  French  —  evidently  some- 
thing rude  —  meant  for  Max. 

"What  shall  I  do  if  I  can't  work  tomorrow!"  moaned 
Madame,  seeing  Alvina  hold  up  the  thermometer  towards  the 
light.  "Max,  what  shall  we  do?" 

"  You  will  stay  in  bed,  and  we  must  do  the  White  Prisoner 
scene,"  said  Max,  rather  staccato  and  official. 

Ciccio  curled  his  lip  and  put  his  head  aside.  Alvina  went 
across  to  Madame  with  the  thermometer.  Madame  lifted  her 
plump  hand  and  fended  off  Alvina,  while  she  made  her  last 
declaration: 

"  Never  —  never  have  I  missed  my  work,  for  a  single  day, 
for  ten  years.  Never.  If  I  am  going  to  lie  abandoned,  I  had 
better  die  at  once." 

"Lie  abandoned!  "  said  Max.  "You  know  you  won't  do 
no  such  thing.  What  are  you  talking  about?  " 

"  Take  the  thermometer,"  said  Geoffrey  roughly,  but  with 
feeling. 

"  Tomorrow,  see,  you  will  be  well.  Quite  certain !  "  said' 
Louis.  Madame  mournfully  shook  her  head,  opened  her 


142  THE  LOST  GIRL 

mouth,  and  sat  back  with  closed  eyes  and  the  stump  of  the 
thermometer  comically  protruding  from  a  corner  of  her  lips. 
Meanwhile  Alvina  took  her  plump  white  wrist  and  felt  her 
pulse. 

"  We  can  practise  — "  began  Geoffrey. 

"  Sh !  "  said  Max,  holding  up  his  finger  and  looking  anx- 
iously at  Alvina  and  Madame,  who  still  leaned  back  with  the 
stump  of  the  thermometer  jauntily  perking  up  from  her  pursed 
mouth,  while  her  face  was  rather  ghastly. 

Max  and  Louis  watched  anxiously.  Geoffrey  sat  blowing 
the  smoke  down  his  nose,  while  Ciccio  callously  lit  another 
cigarette,  striking  a  match  on  his  boot-heel  and  puffing  from 
under  the  tip  of  his  rather  long  nose.  Then  he  took  the 
cigarette  from  his  mouth,  turned  his  head,  slowly  spat  on  the 
floor,  and  rubbed  his  foot  on  his  spit.  Max  flapped  his  eye- 
lids and  looked  all  disdain,  murmuring  something  about  "  ein 
schmutziges  italienisches  Volk,"  whilst  Louis,  refusing  either 
to  see  or  to  hear,  framed  the  word  "  chien  "  on  his  lips. 

Then  quick  as  lightning  both  turned  their  attention  again  to 
Madame. 

Her  temperature  was  a  hundred  and  two. 

"You'd  better  go  to  bed,"  said  Alvina.  "Have  you  eaten 
anything?  " 

"  One  little  mouthful,"  said  Madame  plaintively. 

Max  sat  looking  pale  and  stricken,  Louis  had  hurried  for- 
ward to  take  Madame's  hand.  He  kissed  it  quickly,  then 
turned  aside  his  head  because  of  the  tears  in  his  eyes.  Geof- 
frey gulped  beer  in  large  throatfuls,  and  Ciccio,  with  his  head 
bent,  was  watching  from  under  his  eyebrows. 

"  I'll  run  round  for  the  doctor  — "  said  Alvina. 

"Don't!  Don't  do  that,  my  dear!  Don't  you  go  and  do 
that !  I'm  likely  to  a  temperature  — 

"  Liable  to  a  temperature,"  murmured  Louis  pathetically. 

"  I'll  go  to  bed,"  said  Madame,  obediently  rising. 

"Wait  a  bit.  I'll  see  if  there's  a  fire  in  the  bedroom," 
said  Alvina. 

"  Oh,  my  dear,  you  are  too  good.  Open  the  door  for  her, 
Ciccio  — " 

Ciccio  reached  across  at  the  door,  but  was  too  late.  Max 
had  hastened  to  usher  Alvina  out.  Madame  sank  back  in  her 
chair. 

"  Never  for  ten  years,"  she  was  wailing.     "  Quoi  faire,  ah, 


NATCHA-KEE-TAWARA  143 

quoi  faire!  Que  ferez-vous,  mes  pauvres,  sans  votre  Kish- 
wegin.  Que  vais-je  faire,  mourir  dans  un  tel  pays!  La  bonne 
demoiselle  —  la  bonne  demoiselle  —  elle  a  du  coeur.  Elle 
pourrait  aussi  etre  belle,  s'il  y  avail  un  peu  plus  de  chair. 
Max,  liebster,  schau  ich  sehr  elend  aus?  Ach,  oh  jeh,  oh 
jeh!  " 

"  Ach  nein,  Madame,  ach  nein.  Nicht  so  furchtbar  elend," 
said  Max. 

"  Manca  il  cuore  solamente  al  Ciccio,"  moaned  Madame. 
"  Che  natura  povera,  senza  sentimento  —  niente  di  bello. 
Ahime,  che  amico,  che  ragazzo  duro,  aspero  — ' 

"Trova?  "  said  Ciccio,  with  a  curl  of  the  lip.  He  looked, 
as  he  dropped  his  long,  beautiful  lashes,  as  if  he  might  weep 
for  all  that,  if  he  were  not  bound  to  be  misbehaving  just  now. 

So  Madame  moaned  in  four  languages  as  she  posed  pallid 
in  her  arm-chair.  Usually  she  spoke  in  French  only,  with 
her  young  men.  But  this  was  an  extra  occasion. 

"La  pauvre  Kishwegin!  "  murmured  Madame.  "Elle  va 
finir  au  monde.  EMe  passe  —  la  pauvre  Kishwegin." 

Kishwegin  was  Madame's  Red  Indian  name,  the  name  under 
which  she  danced  her  Squaw's  fire-dance. 

Now  that  she  knew  she  was  ill,  Madame  seemed  to  become 
more  ill.  Her  breath  came  in  little  pants.  She  had  a  pain 
in  her  side.  A  feverish  flush  seemed  to  mount  her  cheek. 
The  young  men  were  all  extremely  uncomfortable.  Louis  did 
not  conceal  his  tears.  Only  Ciccio  kept  the  thin  smile  on  his 
lips,  and  added  to  Madame's  annoyance  and  pain. 

Alvina  came  down  to  take  her  to  bed.  The  young  men  all 
rose,  and  kissed  Madame's  hand  as  she  went  out:  her  poor 
jewelled  hand,  that  was  faintly  perfumed  with  eau  de  Cologne. 
She  spoke  an  appropriate  good-night,  to  each  of  them. 

"  Good-night,  my  faithful  Max,  I  trust  myself  to  you.  Good- 
night, Louis,  the  tender  heart.  Good-night  valiant  Geoffrey. 
Ah  Ciccio,  do  not  add  to  the  weight  of  my  heart.  Be  good 
braves,  all,  be  brothers  in  one  accord.  One  little  prayer  for 
poor  Kishwegin.  Good-night!  " 

After  which  valediction  she  slowly  climbed  the  stairs,  put- 
ting her  hand  on  her  knee  at  each  step,  with  the  effort. 

"  No  —  no,"  she  said  to  Max,  who  would  have  followed  to 
her  assistance.  "  Do  not  come  up.  No  —  no !  " 

Her  bedroom  was  tidy  and  proper. 

"  Tonight,"  she  moaned,  "  I  shan't  be  able  to  see  that  the 


144  THE  LOST  GIRL 

boys'  rooms  are  well  in  order.  They  are  not  to  be  trusted,  no. 
They  need  an  overseeing  eye:  especially  Ciccio;  especially 
Ciccio!  " 

She  sank  down  by  the  fire  and  began  to  undo  her  dress. 

"  You  must  let  me  help  you,"  said  Alvina.  "  You  know  I 
have  been  a  nurse." 

"Ah,  you  are  too  kind,  too  kind,  dear  young  lady.  I  am 
a  lonely  old  woman.  I  am  not  used  to  attentions.  Best  leave 
me." 

"  Let  me  help  you,"  said  Alvina. 

"Alas,  ahime!  Who  would  have  thought  Kishwegin  would 
need  help.  I  danced  last  night  with  the  boys  in  the  theatre 
in  Leek:  and  tonight  I  am  put  to  bed  in  —  what  is  the  name 
of  this  place,  dear?  — It  seems  I  don't  remember  it." 

"  Woodhouse,"  said  Alvina. 

"  Woodhouse !  Woodhouse !  Is  there  not  something  called 
Woodlouse?  I  believe.  Ugh,  horrible!  Why  is  it  hor- 
rible? " 

Alvina  quickly  undressed  the  plump,  trim  little  woman. 
She  seemed  so  soft.  Alvina  could  not  imagine  how  she  could 
be  a  dancer  on  the  stage,  strenuous.  But  Madame's  softness 
could  flash  into  wild  energy,  sudden  convulsive  power,  like  a 
cuttle-fish.  Alvina  brushed  out  the  long  black  hair,  and 
plaited  it  lightly.  Then  she  got  Madame  into  bed. 

"Ah,"  sighed  Madame,  "the  good  bed!  The  good  bed! 
But  cold  —  it  is  so  cold.  Would  you  hang  up  my  dress,  dear, 
and  fold  my  stockings?  " 

Alvina  quickly  folded  and  put  aside  the  dainty  undercloth- 
ing. Queer,  dainty  woman,  was  Madame,  even  to  her  wonder- 
ful threaded  black-and-gold  garters. 

"My  poor  boys  —  no  Kishwegin  tomorrow!  You  don't 
think  I  need  see  a  priest,  dear?  A  priest!  "  said  Madame, 
her  teeth  chattering. 

"  Priest !  Oh  no !  You'll  be  better  when  we  can  get  you 
warm.  I  think  it's  only  a  chill.  Mrs.  Rollings  is  warming  a 
blanket—" 

Alvina  ran  downstairs.  Max  opened  the  sitting-room  door 
and  stood  watching  at  the  sound  of  footsteps.  His  rather 
bony  fists  were  clenched  beneath  his  loose  shirt-cuffs,  his  eye- 
brows tragically  lifted. 

"  Is  she  much  ill?  "  he  asked. 

"  I    don't   know.     But   I    don't   think    so.     Do    you    mind 


NATCHA-KEE-TAWARA  145 

heating  the  blanket  while  Mrs.  Rollings  makes  thin  gruel?  " 

Max  and  Louis  stood  heating  blankets.  Louis'  trousers  were 
cut  rather  tight  at  the  waist,  and  gave  him  a  female  look. 
Max  was  straight  and  stiff.  Mrs.  Rollings  asked  Geoffrey  to 
fill  the  coal-scuttles  and  carry  one  upstairs.  Geoffrey  obedi- 
ently went  out  with  a  lantern  to  the  coal-shed.  Afterwards 
he  was  to  carry  up  the  horse-hair  arm-chair. 

"  I  must  go  home  for  some  things,"  said  Alvina  to  Ciccio. 
"Will  you  come  and  carry  them  for  me?  " 

He  started  up,  and  with  one  movement  threw  away  his 
cigarette.  He  did  not  look  at  Alvina.  His  beautiful  lashes 
seemed  to  screen  his  eyes.  He  was  fairly  tall,  but  loosely  built 
for  an  Italian,  with  slightly  sloping  shoulders.  Alvina 
noticed  the  brown,  slender  Mediterranean  hand,  as  he  put 
his  ringers  to  his  lips.  It  was  a  hand  such  as  she  did  not 
know,  prehensile  and  tender  and  dusky.  With  an  odd  graceful 
slouch  he  went  into  the  passage  and  reached  for  his  coat. 

He  did  not  say  a  word,  but  held  aloof  as  he  walked  with 
Alvina. 

"  I'm  sorry  for  Madame,"  said  Alvina,  as  she  hurried  rather 
breathless  through  the  night.  "  She  does  think  for  you  men." 

But  Ciccio  vouchsafed  no  answer,  and  walked  with  his  hands 
in  the  pockets  of  his  water-proof,  wincing  from  the  weather. 

"  I'm  afraid  she  will  never  be  able  to  dance  tomorrow,"  said 
Alvina. 

"You  think  she  won't  be  able?  "  he  said. 

"  I'm  almost  sure  she  won't." 

After  which  he  said  nothing,  and  Alvina  also  kept  silence 
till  they  came  to  the  black  dark  passage  and  encumbered  yard 
at  the  back  of  the  house. 

"  I  don't  think  you  can  see  at  all,"  she  said.  "  It's  this 
way."  She  groped  for  him  in  the  dark,  and  met  his  groping 
hand. 

"  This  way,"  she  said. 

It  was  curious  how  light  his  fingers  were  in  their  clasp  — 
almost  like  a  child's  touch.  So  they  came  under  the  light 
from  the  window  of  the  sitting-room. 

Alvina  hurried  indoors,  and  the  young  man  followed. 

"  I  shall  have  to  stay  with  Madame  tonight,"  she  explained 
hurriedly.  "  She's  feverish,  but  she  may  throw  it  off  if  we 
can  get  her  into  a  sweat."  And  Alvina  ran  upstairs  collect- 
ing things  necessary.  Ciccio  stood  back  near  the  door,  and 


146  THE  LOST  GIRL 

answered  all  Miss  Pinnegar's  entreaties  to  come  to  the  fire  with 
a  shake  of  the  head  and  a  slight  smile  of  the  lips,  bashful 
and  stupid. 

"  But  do  come  and  warm  yourself  before  you  go  out  again," 
said  Miss  Pinnegar,  looking  at  the  man  as  he  drooped  his 
head  in  the  distance.  He  still  shook  dissent,  but  opened  his 
mouth  at  last. 

"  It  makes  it  colder  after,"  he  said,  showing  his  teeth  in 
a  slight,  stupid  smile. 

"Oh  well,  if  you  think  so,"  said  Miss  Pinnegar,  nettled. 
She  couldn't  make  heads  or  tails  of  him,  and  didn't  try, 

When  they  got  back,  Madame  was  light-headed,  and  talk- 
ing excitedly  of  her  dance,  her  young  men.  The  three  young 
men  were  terrified.  They  had  got  the  blankets  scorching  hot. 
Alvina  smeared  the  plasters  and  applied  them  to  Madame's 
side,  where  the  pain  was.  What  a  white-skinned,  soft,  plump 
child  she  seemed!  Her  pain  meant  a  touch  of  pleurisy,  for 
sure.  The  men  hovered  outside  the  door.  Alvina  wrapped  the 
poor  patient  in  the  hot  blankets,  got  a  few  spoonfuls  of  hot 
gruel  and  whiskey  down  her  throat,  fastened  her  down  in  bed, 
lowered  the  light  and  banished  the  men  from  the  stairs.  Then 
she  sat  down  to  watch.  Madame  chafed,  moaned,  murmured 
feverishly.  Alvina  soothed  her,  and  put  her  hands  in  bed. 
And  at  last  the  poor  dear  became  quiet.  Her  brow  was  faintly 
moist.  She  fell  into  a  quiet  sleep,  perspiring  freely.  Alvina 
watched  her  still,  soothed  her  when  she  suddenly  started  and 
began  to  break  out  of  the  bed-clothes,  quieted  her,  pressed  her 
gently,  firmly  down,  folded  her  tight  and  made  her  submit  to 
the  perspiration  against  which,  in  convulsive  starts,  she  fought 
and  strove,  crying  that  she  was  suffocating,  she  was  too  hot, 
too  hot. 

"  Lie  still,  lie  still,"  said  Alvina.     "  You  must  keep  warm." 

Poor  Madame  moaned.  How  she  hated  seething  in  the  bath 
of  her  own  perspiration.  Her  wilful  nature  rebelled  strongly. 
She  would  have  thrown  aside  her  coverings  and  gasped  into 
the  cold  air,  if  Alvina  had  not  pressed  her  down  with  that 
soft,  inevitable  pressure. 

So  the  hours  passed,  till  about  one  o'clock,  when  the  per- 
spiration became  less  profuse,  and  the  patient  was  really  bet- 
ter, really  quieter.  Then  Alvina  went  downstairs  for  a  mo- 
ment. She  saw  the  light  still  burning  in  the  front  room. 
Tapping,  she  entered.  There  sat  Max  by  the  fire,  a  picture 


NATCHA-KEE-TAWARA  147 

of  misery,  with  Louis  opposite  him,  nodding  asleep  after  his 
tears.  On  the  sofa  Geoffrey  snored  lightly,  while  Ciccio  sat 
with  his  head  on  the  table,  his  arms  spread  out,  dead  asleep. 
Again  she  noticed  the  tender,  dusky  Mediterranean  hands,  the 
slender  wrists,  slender  for  a  man  naturally  loose  and  muscular. 

"Haven't  you  gone  to  bed?  "  whispered  Alvina.     "Why?  " 

Louis  started  awake.  Max,  the  only  stubborn  watcher,  shook 
his  head  lugubriously. 

"  But  she's  better,"  whispered  Alvina.  "  She's  perspired. 
She's  better.  She's  sleeping  naturally." 

Max  stared  with  round,  sleep-whitened,  owlish  eyes,  pessi- 
mistic and  sceptical: 

"  Yes,"  persisted  Alvina.  "  Come  and  look  at  her.  But 
don't  wake  her,  whatever  you  do." 

Max  took  off  his  slippers  and  rose  to  his  tall  height. 
Louis,  like  a  scared  chicken,  followed.  Each  man  held  his 
slippers  in  his  hand.  They  noiselessly  entered  and  peeped 
stealthily  over  the  heaped  bedclothes.  Madame  was  lying, 
looking  a  little  flushed  and  very  girlish,  sleeping  lightly,  with 
a  strand  of  black  hair  stuck  to  her  cheek,  and  her  lips  lightly 
parted. 

Max  watched  her  for  some  moments.  Then  suddenly  he 
straightened  himself,  pushed  back  his  brown  hair  that  was 
brushed  up  in  the  German  fashion,  and  crossed  himself,  drop- 
ping his  knee  as  before  an  altar;  crossed  himself  and  dropped 
his  knee  once  more;  and  then  a  third  time  crossed  himself 
and  inclined  before  the  altar.  Then  he  straightened  himself 
again,  and  turned  aside. 

Louis  also  crossed  himself.  His  tears  burst  out.  He  bowed 
and  took  the  edge  of  a  blanket  to  his  lips,  kissing  it  reverently. 
Then  he  covered  his  face  with  his  hand. 

Meanwhile  Madame  slept  lightly  and  innocently  on. 

Alvina  turned  to  go.  Max  silently  followed,  leading  Louis 
by  the  arm.  When  they  got  downstairs,  Max  and  Louis  threw 
themselves  in  each  other's  arms,  and  kissed  each  other  on 
either  cheek,  gravely,  in  Continental  fashion. 

"  She  is  better,"  said  Max  gravely,  in  French. 

"  Thanks  to  God,"  replied  Louis. 

Alvina  witnessed  all  this  with  some  amazement.  The  men 
did  not  heed  her.  Max  went  over  and  shook  Geoffrey,  Louis 
put  his  hand  on  Ciccio's  shoulder.  The  sleepers  were  dif- 
ficult to  wake.  The  wakers  shook  the  sleeping,  but  in  vain. 


148  THE  LOST  GIRL 

At  last  Geoffrey  began  to  stir.  But  in  vain  Louis  lifted 
Ciccio's  shoulders  from  the  table.  The  head  and  the  hands 
dropped  inert.  The  long  black  lashes  lay  motionless,  the 
rather  long,  fine  Greek  nose  drew  the  same  light  breaths,  the 
mouth  remained  shut.  Strange  fine  black  hair,  he  had,  close 
as  fur,  animal,  and  naked,  frail-seeming,  tawny  hands.  There 
was  a  silver  ring  on  one  hand. 

Alvina  suddenly  seized  one  of  the  inert  hands  that  slid  on 
the  table-cloth  as  Louis  shook  the  young  man's  shoulders. 
Tight  she  pressed  the  hand.  Ciccio  opened  his  tawny-yellowish 
eyes,  that  seemed  to  have  been  put  in  with  a  dirty  finger,  as 
the  saying  goes,  owing  to  the  sootiness  of  the  lashes  and  brows. 
He  was  quite  drunk  with  his  first  sleep,  and  saw  nothing. 

"  Wake  up,"  said  Alvina,  laughing,  pressing  his  hand  again. 

He  lifted  his  head  once  more,  suddenly  clasped  her  hand, 
his  eyes  came  to  consciousness,  his  hand  relaxed,  he  recog- 
nized her,  and  he  sat  back  in  his  chair,  turning  his  face  aside 
and  lowering  his  lashes. 

"Get  up,  great  beast,"  Louis  was  saying  softly  in  French, 
pushing  him  as  ox-drivers  sometimes  push  their  oxen.  Ciccio 

red  to  his  feet. 
She  is  better,"  they  told  him.     "  We  are  going  to  bed." 

They  took  their  candles  and  trooped  off  upstairs,  each  one 
bowing  to  Alvina  as  he  passed.  Max  solemnly,  Louis  gal- 
lant, the  other  two  dumb  and  sleepy.  They  occupied  the  two 
attic  chambers. 

Alvina  carried  up  the  loose  bed  from  the  sofa,  and  slept  on 
the  floor  before  the  fire  in  Madame's  room. 

Madame  slept  well  and  long,  rousing  and  stirring  and  set- 
tling off  again.  It  was  eight  o'clock  before  she  asked  her 
first  question.  Alvina  was  already  up. 

"  Oh  —  alors  —  Then  I  am  better,  I  am  quite  well.  I  can 
dance  today." 

"I  don't  think  today,"  said  Alvina.  "But  perhaps  to- 
morrow." 

"  No,  today,"  said  Madame.  "  I  can  dance  today,  because 
I  am  quite  well.  I  am  Kishwegin." 

"  You  are  better.  But  you  must  lie  still  today.  Yes,  really 
—  you  will  find  you  are  weak  when  you  try  to  stand." 

Madame  watched  Alvina's  thin  face  with  sullen  eyes. 

"  You  are  an  Englishwoman,  severe  and  materialist,"  she 
said. 


stagge 
" 


NATCHA-KEE-TAWARA  149 

Alvina  started  and  looked  round  at  her  with  wide  blue 
eyes. 

"  Why?  "  she  said.  There  was  a  wan,  pathetic  look  about 
her,  a  sort  of  heroism  which  Madame  detested,  but  which  now 
she  found  touching. 

"Come!  "  said  Madame,  stretching  out  her  plump  jewelled 
hand.  "  Come,  I  am  an  ungrateful  woman.  Come,  they  are 
not  good  for  you,  the  people,  I  see  it.  Come  to  me." 

Alvina  went  slowly  to  Madame,  and  took  the  outstretched 
hand.  Madame  kissed  her  hand,  then  drew  her  down  and 
kissed  her  on  either  cheek,  gravely,  as  the  young  men  had 
kissed  each  other. 

"  You  have  been  good  to  Kishwegin,  and  Kishwegin  has  a 
heart  that  remembers.  There,  Miss  Houghton,  I  shall  do 
what  you  tell  me.  Kishwegin  obeys  you."  And  Madame 
patted  Alvina's  hand  and  nodded  her  head  sagely. 

"  Shall  I  take  your  temperature?  "  said  Alvina. 

"Yes,  my  dear,  you  shall.  You  shall  bid  me,  and  I  shall 
obey." 

So  Madame  lay  back  on  her  pillow,  submissively  pursing 
the  thermometer  between  her  lips  and  watching  Alvina  with 
black  eyes. 

"  It's  all  right,"  said  Alvina,  as  she  looked  at  the  ther- 
mometer. "  Normal." 

"  Normal !  "  re-echoed  Madame's  rather  guttural  voice. 
"Good!  Well,  then  when  shall  I  dance?  " 

Alvina  turned  and  looked  at  her. 

"  I  think,  truly,"  said  Alvina,  "  it  shouldn't  be  before  Thurs- 
day or  Friday." 

"Thursday!"  repeated  Madame.  "You  say  Thursday?" 
There  was  a  note  of  strong  rebellion  in  her  voice. 

"You'll  be  so  weak.  You've  only  just  escaped  pleurisy. 
I  can  only  say  what  I  truly  think,  can't  I?  " 

"Ah,  you  Englishwomen,"  said  Madame,  watching  with 
black  eyes.  "  I  think  you  like  to  have  your  own  way.  In  all 
things,  to  have  your  own  way.  And  over  all  people.  You 
are  so  good,  to  have  your  own  way.  Yes,  you  good  English- 
women. Thursday.  Very  well,  it  shall  be  Thursday.  Till 
Thursday,  then,  Kishwegin  does  not  exist." 

And  she  subsided,  already  rather  weak,  upon  her  pillow 
again.  When  she  had  taken  her  tea  and  was  washed  and  her 
room  was  tidied,  she  summoned  the  young  men.  Alvina  had 


150  THE  LOST  GIRL 

warned  Max  that  she  wanted  Madame  to  be  kept  as  quiet  as 
possible  this  day. 

As  soon  as  the  first  of  the  four  appeared,  in  his  shirt- 
sleeves and  his  slippers,  in  the  doorway,  Madame  said: 

"Ah,  there  you  are,  my  young  men!  Come  in!  Come  in! 
It  is  not  Kishwegin  addresses  you.  Kishwegin  does  not  exist 
till  Thursday,  as  the  English  demoiselle  makes  it."  She  held 
out  her  hand,  faintly  perfumed  with  eau  de  Cologne  —  the 
whole  room  smelled  of  eau  de  Cologne  —  and  Max  stooped 
his  brittle  spine  and  kissed  it.  She  touched  his  cheek  gently 
with  her  other  hand. 

"  My  faithful  Max,  my  support." 

Louis  came  smiling  with  a  bunch  of  violets  and  pinky 
anemones.  He  laid  them  down  on  the  bed  before  her,  and 
took  her  hand,  bowing  and  kissing  it  reverently. 

"  You  are  better,  dear  Madame?  "  he  said,  smiling  long  at 
her. 

"Better,  yes,  gentle  Louis.  And  better  for  thy  flowers, 
chivalric  heart."  She  put  the  violets  and  anemones  to  her 
face  with  both  hands,  and  then  gently  laid  them  aside  to 
extend  her  hand  to  Geoffrey. 

'*  The  good  Geoffrey  will  do  his  best,  while  there  is  no 
Kishwegin?  "  she  said  as  he  stooped  to  her  salute. 

"  Bien  siir,  Madame." 

"  Ciccio,  a  button  off  thy  shirt-cuff.  Where  is  my  needle?  " 
She  looked  round  the  room  as  Ciccio  kissed  her  hand. 

"  Did  you  want  anything?  "  said  Alvina,  who  had  not  fol- 
lowed the  French. 

"  My  needle,  to  sew  on  this  button.  It  is  there,  in  the  silk 
bag." 

"  I  will  do  it,"  said  Alvina. 

"Thank  you." 

While  Alvina  sewed  on  the  button,  Madame  spoke  to  her 
young  men,  principally  to  Max.  They  were  to  obey  Max, 
she  said,  for  he  was  their  eldest  brother.  This  afternoon 
they  would  practise  well  the  scene  of  the  White  Prisoner. 
Very  carefully  they  must  practise,  and  they  must  find  some 
one  who  would  play  the  young  squaw  —  for  in  this  scene  she 
had  practically  nothing  to  do,  the  young  squaw,  but  just  sit 
and  stand.  Miss  Houghton  —  but  ah,  Miss  Houghton  must 
play  the  piano,  she  could  not  take  the  part  of  the  young  squaw. 
Some  other  then. 


NATGHA-KEE-TAWARA  151 

While  the  interview  was  going  on,  Mr.  May  arrived,  full  of 
concern. 

"  Shan't  we  have  the  procession !  "  he  cried. 

"Ah,  the  procession!  "  cried  Madame. 

The  Natcha-Kee-Tawara  Troupe  upon  request  would  signal- 
ize its  entry  into  any  town  by  a  procession.  The  young  men 
were  dressed  as  Indian  braves,  and  headed  by  Kishwegin  they 
rode  on  horseback  through  the  main  streets.  Ciccio,  who  was 
the  crack  horseman,  having  served  a  very  well-known  horsey 
Marchese  in  an  Italian  cavalry  regiment,  did  a  bit  of  show 
riding. 

Mr.  May  was  very  keen  on  the  procession.  He  had  the 
horses  in  readiness.  The  morning  was  faintly  sunny,  after  the 
sleet  and  bad  weather.  And  now  he  arrived  to  find  Madame 
in  bed  and  the  young  men  holding  council  with  her. 

"  How  very  unfortunate !  "  cried  Mr.  May.  "  How  very  un- 
fortunate! " 

"Dreadful!     Dreadful!  "  wailed  Madame  from  the  bed. 

"  But  can't  we  do  anything?  " 

"  Yes  —  you  can  do  the  White  Prisoner  scene  —  the  young 
men  can  do  that,  if  you  find  a  dummy  squaw.  Ah,  I  think 
I  must  get  up  after  all." 

Alvina  saw  the  look  of  fret  and  exhaustion  in  Madame's 
face. 

"Won't  you  all  go  downstairs  now?  "  said  Alvina.  "Mr. 
Max  knows  what  you  must  do." 

And  she  shooed  the  five  men  out  of  the  bedroom. 

"  I  must  get  up.  I  won't  dance.  I  will  be  a  dummy.  But 
I  must  be  there.  It  is  too  dre-eadf ul,  too  dre-eadf ul !  "  wailed 
Madame. 

"  Don't  take  any  notice  of  them.  They  can  manage  by 
themselves.  Men  are  such  babies.  Let  them  carry  it  through 
by  themselves." 

"  Children  —  they  are  all  children !  "  wailed  Madame. 
"All  children!  And  so,  what  will  they  do  without  their  old 
gouvernante?  My  poor  braves,  what  will  they  do  without 
Kishwegin  ?  It  is  too  dreadful,  too  dre-eadful,  yes.  The  poor 
Mr.  May  —  so  disappointed." 

"  Then  let  him  be  disappointed,"  cried  Alvina,  as  she  forci- 
bly tucked  up  Madame  and  made  her  lie  still. 

"You  are  hard!  You  are  a  hard  Englishwoman.  All 
alike.  All  alike!  "  Madame  subsided  fretfully  and  weakly. 


152  THE  LOST  GIRL 

Alvina  moved  softly  about.  And  in  a  few  minutes  Madame 
was  sleeping  again. 

Alvina  went  downstairs.  Mr.  May  was  listening  to  Max, 
who  was  telling  in  German  all  about  the  White  Prisoner  scene. 
Mr.  May  had  spent  his  boyhood  in  a  German  school.  He 
cocked  his  head  on  one  side,  and,  laying  his  hand  on  Max's 
arm,  entertained  him  in  odd  German.  The  others  were  silent. 
Ciccio  made  no  pretence  of  listening,  but  smoked  and  stared 
at  his  own  feet.  Louis  and  Geoffrey  half  understood,  so 
Louis  nodded  with  a  look  of  deep  comprehension,  whilst 
Geoffrey  uttered  short,  snappy  "  Ja !  —  Ja !  —  Doch !  — 
Eben!  "  rather  irrelevant. 

"  I'll  be  the  squaw,"  cried  Mr.  May  in  English,  breaking  off 
and  turning  round  to  the  company.  He  perked  up  his  head 
in  an  odd,  parrot-like  fashion.  "  /'//  be  the  squaw!  What's 
her  name?  Kishwegin?  I'll  be  Kishwegin."  And  he 
bridled  and  beamed  self-consciously. 

The  two  tall  Swiss  looked  down  on  him,  faintly  smiling. 
Ciccio,  sitting  with  his  arms  on  his  knees  on  the  sofa,  screwed 
round  his  head  and  watched  the  phenomenon  of  Mr.  May  with 
inscrutable,  expressionless  attention. 

"  Let  us  go,"  said  Mr.  May,  bubbling  with  new  importance. 
"  Let  us  go  and  rehearse  this  morning,  and  let  us  do  the 
procession  this  afternoon,  when  the  colliers  are  just  coming 
home.  There!  What?  Isn't  that  exactly  the  idea?  Well! 
Will  you  be  ready  at  once,  now?  " 

He  looked  excitedly  at  the  young  men.  They  nodded  with 
slow  gravity,  as  if  they  were  already  braves.  And  they 
turned  to  put  on  their  boots.  Soon  they  were  all  trooping 
down  to  Lumley,  Mr.  May  prancing  like  a  little  circus-pony 
beside  Alvina,  the  four  young  men  rolling  ahead. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  it?  "  cried  Mr.  May.  "  We've  saved 
the  situation  —  what?  Don't  you  think  so?  Don't  you  think 
we  can  congratulate  ourselves." 

They  found  Mr.  Houghton  fussing  about  in  the  theatre. 
He  was  on  tenterhooks  of  agitation,  knowing  Madame  was  ill. 

Max  gave  a  brilliant  display  of  yodelling. 

"  But  I  must  explain  to  them,"  cried  Mr.  May.  "  I  must 
explain  to  them  what  yodel  means.  " 

And  turning  to  the  empty  theatre,  he  began,  stretching  forth 
his  hand. 

"  In  the  high  Alps  of  Switzerland,  where  eternal  snows  and 


NATCHA-KEE-TAWARA  153 

glaciers  reign  over  luscious  meadows  full  of  flowers,  if  you 
should  chance  to  awaken,  as  I  have  done,  in  some  lonely 
wooden  farm  amid  the  mountain  pastures,  you  —  er  —  you  — 
let  me  see  —  if  you  —  no  —  if  you  should  chance  to  spend  the 
night  in  some  lonely  wooden  farm,  amid  the  upland  pastures, 
dawn  will  awake  you  with  a  wild,  inhuman  song,  you  will 
open  your  eyes  to  the  first  gleam  of  icy,  eternal  sunbeams, 
your  ears  will  be  ringing  with  weird  singing,  that  has  no  words 
and  no  meaning,  but  sounds  as  if  some  wild  and  icy  god  were 
warbling  to  himself  as  he  wandered  among  the  peaks  of  dawn. 
You  look  forth  across  the  flowers  to  the  blue  snow,  and  you 
see,  far  off,  a  small  figure  of  a  man  moving  among  the  grass. 
It  is  a  peasant  singing  his  mountain  song,  warbling  like  some 
creature  that  lifted  up  its  voice  on  the  edge  of  the  eternal- 
snows,  before  the  human  race  began " 

During  this  oration  James  Houghton  sat  with  his  chin  in 
his  hand,  devoured  with  bitter  jealousy,  measuring  Mr.  May's 
eloquence.  And  then  he  started,  as  Max,  tall  and  handsome 
now  in  Tyrolese  costume,  white  shirt  and  green,  square  braces, 
short  trousers  of  chamois  leather  stitched  with  green  and  red, 
firm-planted  naked  knees,  naked  ankles  and  heavy  shoes, 
warbled  his  native  Yodel  strains,  a  piercing  and  disturbing 
sound.  He  was  flushed,  erect,  keen  tempered  and  fierce  and 
mountainous.  There  was  a  fierce,  icy  passion  in  the  man. 
Alvina  began  to  understand  Madame's  subjection  to  him. 

Louis  and  Geoffrey  did  a  farce  dialogue,  two  foreigners  at 
the  same  moment  spying  a  purse  in  the  street,  struggling  with 
each  other  and  protesting  they  wanted  to  take  it  to  the  police- 
man, Ciccio,  who  stood  solid  and  ridiculous.  Mr.  Houghton 
nodded  slowly  and  gravely,  as  if  to  give  his  measured  approval. 

Then  all  retired  to  dress  for  the  great  scene.  Alvina  prac- 
tised the  music  Madame  carried  with  her.  If  Madame  found 
a  good  pianist,  she  welcomed  the  accompaniment:  if  not,  she 
dispensed  with  it. 

"Am  I  all  right?  "  said  a  smirking  voice. 

And  there  was  Kishwegin,  dusky,  coy,  with  long  black  hair 
and  a  short  chamois  dress,  gaiters  and  moccasins  and  bare 
arms:  50  coy,  and  so  smirking.  Alvina  burst  out  laughing. 

"But  shan't  I  do?  "  protested  Mr.  May,  hurt. 

"  Yes,  you're  wonderful,"  said  Alvina,  choking.  "  But  I 
must  laugh." 

"  But  why?     Tell  me  why?  "   asked  Mr.   May  anxiously. 


154  THE  LOST  GIRL 

"  Is  it  my  appearance  you  laugh  at,  or  is  it  only  me?  If  it's 
me  I  don't  mind.  But  if  it's  my  appearance,  tell  me  so." 

Here  an  appalling  figure  of  Ciccio  in  war-paint  strolled  on 
to  the  stage.  He  was  naked  to  the  waist,  wore  scalp-fringed 
trousers,  was  dusky-red-skinned,  had  long  black  hair  and 
eagle's  feathers  —  only  two  feathers  —  and  a  face  wonder- 
fully and  terribly  painted  with  white,  red,  yellow,  and  black 
lines.  He  was  evidently  pleased  with  himself.  His  curious 
soft  slouch,  and  curious  way  of  lifting  his  lip  from  his  white 
teeth,  in  a  sort  of  smile,  was  very  convincing. 

"  You.  haven't  got  the  girdle,"  he  said,  touching  Mr.  May's 
plump  waist  — "  and  some  flowers  in  your  hair." 

Mr.  May  here  gave  a  sharp  cry  and  a  jump.  A  bear  on  its 
hind  legs,  slow,  shambling,  rolling  its  loose  shoulders,  was 
stretching  a  paw  towards  him.  The  bear  dropped  heavily  on 
four  paws  again,  and  a  laugh  came  from  its  muzzle. 

"You  won't  have  to  dance,"  said  Geoffrey  out  of  the  bear. 

"  Come  and  put  in  the  flowers,"  said  Mr.  May  anxiously,  to 
Alvina. 

In  the  dressing-room,  the  dividing-curtain  was  drawn. 
Max,  in  deerskin  trousers  but  with  unpainted  torso  looked 
very  white  and  strange  as  he  put  the  last  touches  of  war-paint 
on  Louis'  face.  He  glanced  round  at  Alvina,  then  went  on 
with  his  work.  There  was  a  sort  of  nobility  about  his  erect 
white  form  and  stiffly-carried  head,  the  semi-luminous  brown 
hair.  He  seemed  curiously  superior. 

Alvina  adjusted  the  maidenly  Mr.  May.  Louis  arose,  a 
brave  like  Ciccio,  in  war-paint  even  more  hideous.  Max 
slipped  on  a  tattered  hunting-shirt  and  cartridge  belt.  His  face 
was  a  little  darkened.  He  was  the  white  prisoner. 

They  arranged  the  scenery,  while  Alvina  watched.  It  was 
soon  done.  A  back  cloth  of  tree-trunks  and  dark  forest:  a 
wigwam,  a  fire,  and  a  cradle  hanging  from  a  pole.  As  they 
worked,  Alvina  tried  in  vain  to  dissociate  the  two  braves  from 
their  war-paint.  The  lines  were  drawn  so  cleverly  that  the 
grimace  of  ferocity  was  fixed  and  horrible,  so  that  even  in  the 
quiet  work  of  scene-shifting  Louis'  stiffish,  female  grace  seemed 
full  of  latent  cruelty,  whilst  Ciccio's  more  muscular  slouch 
made  her  feel  she  would  not  trust  him  for  one  single  mo- 
ment. Awful  things  men  were,  savage,  cruel,  underneath 
their  civilization. 


NATCHA-KEE-TAWARA  155 

The  scene  had  its  beauty.  It  began  with  Kishwegin  alone  at 
the  door  of  the  wigwam,  cooking,  listening,  giving  an  occa- 
sional push  to  the  hanging  cradle,  and,  if  only  Madame  were 
taking  the  part,  crooning  an  Indian  cradle-song.  Enter  the 
brave  Louis  with  his  white  prisoner,  Max,  who  has  his  hands 
bound  to  his  side.  Kishwegin  gravely  salutes  her  husband  — 
the  bound  prisoner  is  seated  by  the  fire  —  Kishwegin  serves 
food,  and  asks  permission  to  feed  the  prisoner.  The  brave 
Louis,  hearing  a  sound,  starts  up  with  his  bow  and  arrow. 
There  is  a  dumb  scene  of  sympathy  between  Kishwegin  and 
the  prisoner  —  the  prisoner  wants  his  bonds  cut.  Re-enter 
the  brave  Louis  —  he  is  angry  with  Kishwegin  —  enter  the 
brave  Ciccio  hauling  a  bear,  apparently  dead.  Kishwegin  ex- 
amines the  bear,  Ciccio  examines  the  prisoner.  Ciccio  tor- 
tures the  prisoner,  makes  him  stand,  makes  him  caper  un- 
willingly. Kishwegin  swings  the  cradle.  The  prisoner  is 
tripped  up  —  falls,  and  cannot  rise.  He  lies  near  the  fallen 
bear.  Kishwegin  carries  food  to  Ciccio.  The  two  braves  con- 
verse in  dumb  show,  Kishwegin  swings  the  cradle  and  croons. 
The  men  rise  once  more  and  bend  over  the  prisoner.  As  they 
do  so,  there  is  a  muffled  roar.  The  bear  is  sitting  up.  Louis 
swings  round,  and  at  the  same  moment  the  bear  strikes  him 
down.  Ciccio  springs  forward  and  stabs  the  bear,  then  closes 
with  it.  Kishwegin  runs  and  cuts  the  prisoner's  bonds.  He 
rises,  and  stands  trying  to  lift  his  numbed  and  powerless 
arms,  while  the  bear  slowly  crushes  Ciccio,  and  Kishwegin 
kneels  over  her  husband.  The  bear  drops  Ciccio  lifeless, 
and  turns  to  Kishwegin.  At  that  moment  Max  manages  to  kill 
the  bear  —  he  takes  Kishwegin  by  the  hand  and  kneels  with 
her  beside  the  dead  Louis. 

It  was  wonderful  how  well  the  men  played  their  different 
parts.  But  Mr.  May  was  a  little  too  frisky  as  Kishwegin. 
However,  it  would  do. 

Ciccio  got  dressed  as  soon  as  possible,  to  go  and  look  at  the 
horses  hired  for  the  afternoon  procession.  Alvina  accom- 
panied him,  Mr.  May  and  the  others  were  busy. 

"You  know  I  think  it's  quite  wonderful,  your  scene,"  she 
said  to  Ciccio. 

He  turned  and  looked  down  at  her.  His  yellow,  dusky-set 
eyes  rested  on  her  good-naturedly,  without  seeing  her,  his  lip 
curled  in  a  self-conscious,  contemptuous  sort  of  smile. 

"  Not  without  Madame,"  he  said,  with  the  slow,  half-sneer- 


156  THE  LOST  GIRL 

ing,  stupid  smile.  "  Without  Madame  — "  he  lifted  his  shoul- 
ders and  spread  his  hands  and  tilted  his  brows  — "  fool's 
play,  you  know." 

"  No,"  said  Alvina.  "  I  think  Mr.  May  is  good,  consider- 
ing. What  does  Madame  do?  "  she  asked  a  little  jealously. 

"Do?  "  He  looked  down  at  her  with  the  same  long,  half- 
sardonic  look  of  his  yellow  eyes,  like  a  cat  looking  casually 
at  a  bird  which  flutters  past.  And  again  he  made  his  shrug- 
ging motion.  "She  does  it  all,  really.  The  others  —  they 
are  nothing  —  what  they  are  Madame  has  made  them.  And 
now  they  think  they've  done  it  all,  you  see.  You  see,  that's 
it." 

"But  how  has  Madame  made  it  all?  Thought  it  out,  you 
mean?  " 

"  Thought  it  out,  yes.  And  then  done  it.  You  should  see 
her  dance  —  ah !  You  should  see  her  dance  round  the  bear, 
when  I  bring  him  in!  Ah,  a  beautiful  thing,  you  know.  She 
claps  her  hand  —  And  Ciccio  stood  still  in  the  street,  with 
his  hat  cocked  a  little  on  one  side,  rather  common-looking,  and 
he  smiled  along  his  fine  nose  at  Alvina,  and  he  clapped  his 
hands  lightly,  and  he  tilted  his  eyebrows  and  his  eyelids  as  if 
facially  he  were  imitating  a  dance,  and  all  the  time  his  lips 
smiled  stupidly.  As  he  gave  a  little  assertive  shake  of  his 
head,  finishing,  there  came  a  great  yell  of  laughter  from  the 
opposite  pavement,  where  a  gang  of  pottery  lasses,  in  aprons 
all  spattered  with  grey  clay,  and  hair  and  boots  and  skin  spat- 
tered with  pallid  spots,  had  stood  to  watch.  The  girls  opposite 
shrieked  again,  for  all  the  world  like  a  gang  of  grey  baboons. 
Ciccio  turned  round  and  looked  at  them  with  a  sneer  along 
his  nose.  They  yelled  the  louder.  And  he  was  horribly  un- 
comfortable, walking  there  beside  Alvina  with  his  rather  small 
and  effeminately-shod  feet. 

"  How  stupid  they  are,"  said  Alvina.  "  I've  got  used  to 
them." 

"  They  should  be  — "  he  lifted  his  hand  with  a  sharp,  vicious 
movement  — "  smacked,"  he  concluded,  lowering  his  hand 
again. 

"  Who  is  going  to  do  it?  "  said  Alvina. 

He  gave  a  Neapolitan  grimace,  and  twiddled  the  fingers  of 
one  hand  outspread  in  the  air,  as  if  to  say:  "  There  you  are! 
You've  got  to  thank  the  fools  who've  failed  to  do  it." 


NATCHA-KEE-TAWARA  157 

"  Why  do  you  all  love  Madame  so  much?  "  Alvina  asked. 

"  How,  love?  "  he  said,  making  a  little  grimace.  "  We  like 
her  —  we  love  her  —  as  if  she  were  a  mother.  You  say 
love  — "  He  raised  his  shoulders  slightly,  with  a  shrug.  And 
all  the  time  he  looked  down  at  Alvina  from  under  his  dusky 
eye-lashes,  as  if  watching  her  sideways,  and  his  mouth  had  the 
peculiar,  stupid,  self-conscious,  half -jeering  smile.  Alvina  was 
a  little  bit  annoyed.  But  she  felt  that  a  great  instinctive  good- 
naturedness  came  out  of  him,  he  was  self-conscious  and  con- 
strained, knowing  she  did  not  follow  his  language  of  gesture. 
For  him,  it  was  not  yet  quite  natural  to  express  himself  in 
speech.  Gesture  and  grimace  were  instantaneous,  and  spoke 
worlds  of  things,  if  you  would  but  accept  them. 

But  certainly  he  was  stupid,  in  her  sense  of  the  word.  She 
could  hear  Mr.  May's  verdict  of  him:  "Like  a  child,  you 
know,  just  as  charming  and  just  as  tiresome  and  just  as 
stupid." 

"  Where  is  your  home?  "  she  asked  him. 

"  In  Italy."     She  felt  a  fool. 

"Which  part?  "  she  insisted. 

"  Naples,"  he  said,  looking  down  at  her  sideways,  search- 
ingly. 

"  It  must  be  lovely,"  she  said. 

"Ha  —  !  "  He  threw  his  head  on  one  side  and  spread  out 
his  hands,  as  if  to  say — "What  do  you  want,  if  you  don't 
find  Naples  lovely." 

"  I  should  like  to  see  it.  But  I  shouldn't  like  to  die,"  she 
said. 

"  What?  " 

"  They  say  '  See  Naples  and  die,' "  she  laughed. 

He  opened  his  mouth,  and  understood.  Then  he  smiled  at 
her  directly. 

"  You  know  what  that  means?  "  he  said  cutely.  "  It  means 
see  Naples  and  die  afterwards.  Don't  die  before  you've  seen 
it."  He  smiled  with  a  knowing  smile. 

"  I  see!     I  see!  "  she  cried.     "  I  never  thought  of  that." 

He  was  pleased  with  her  surprise  and  amusement. 

"  Ah  Naples !  "  he  said.  "  She  is  lovely  -  He  spread  his 
hand  across  the  air  in  front  of  him  —  "  The  sea  —  and  Posi- 
lippo  —  and  Sorrento  —  and  Capri  —  Ah-h !  You've  never 
been  out  of  England?  " 

"  No,"  she  said.     "  I  should  love  to  go." 


158  THE  LOST  GIRL 

He  looked  down  into  her  eyes.  It  was  his  instinct  to  say  at 
once  he  would  take  her. 

"  You've  seen  nothing  —  nothing,"  he  said  to  her. 

"But  if  Naples  is  so  lovely,  how  could  you  leave  it?  "  she 
asked. 

"  What?  " 

She  repeated  her  question.  For  answer,  he  looked  at  her, 
held  out  his  hand,  and  rubbing  the  ball  of  his  thumb  across 
the  tips  of  his  fingers,  said,  with  a  fine,  handsome  smile: 

"  Pennies !  Money !  You  can't  earn  money  in  Naples. 
Ah,  Naples  is  beautiful,  but  she  is  poor.  You  live  in  the 
sun,  and  you  earn  fourteen,  fifteen  pence  a  day  — " 

"  Not  enough,"  she  said. 

He  put  his  head  on  one  side  and  tilted  his  brows,  as  if  to 
say  "What  are  you  to  do?  "  And  the  smile  on  his  mouth 
was  sad,  fine,  and  charming.  There  was  an  indefinable  air 
of  sadness  or  wistfulness  about  him,  something  so  robust  and 
fragile  at  the  same  time,  that  she  was  drawn  in  a  strange 
way. 

"  But  you'll  go  back?  "  she  said. 

"Where?" 

"To  Italy.     To  Naples." 

"  Yes,  I  shall  go  back  to  Italy,"  he  said,  as  if  unwilling  to 
commit  himself.  "  But  perhaps  I  shan't  go  back  to  Naples." 

"Never?" 

"  Ah,  never!  I  don't  say  never.  I  shall  go  to  Naples,  to 
see  my  mother's  sister.  But  I  shan't  go  to  live  — " 

"Have  you  a  mother  and  father?  " 

"I?  No!  I  have  a  brother  and  two  sisters  —  in  America. 
Parents,  none.  They  are  dead." 

"  And  you  wander  about  the  world  — "  she  said 

He  looked  at  her,  and  made  a  slight,  sad  gesture,  indifferent 
also. 

"  But  you  have  Madame  for  a  mother,"  she  said. 

He  made  another  gesture  this  time:  pressed  down  the  corners 
of  his  mouth  as  if  he  didn't  like  it.  Then  he  turned  with  the 
slow,  fine  smile. 

"Does  a  man  want  two  mothers?  Eh?  "  he  said,  as  if  he 
posed  a  conundrum. 

"  I  shouldn't  think  so,"  laughed  Alvina. 

He  glanced  at  her  to  see  what  she  meant,  what  she  under- 
stood. 


NATCHA-KEE-TAWARA  159 

"  My  mother  is  dead,  see !  "  he  said.  "  Frenchwomen  — 
Frenchwomen  —  they  have  their  babies  till  they  are  a  hun- 
dred—" 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  said  Alvina,  laughing. 

"  A  Frenchman  is  a  little  man  when  he's  seven  years  old  — 
and  if  his  mother  comes,  he  is  a  little  baby  boy  when  he's 
seventy.  Do  you  know  that?  " 

"  I  didn't  know  it,"  said  Alvina. 

"But  now  —  you  do,"  he  said,  lurching  round  a  corner 
with  her. 

They  had  come  to  the  stables.  Three  of  the  horses  were 
there,  including  the  thoroughbred  Ciccio  was  going  to  ride. 
He  stood  and  examined  the  beasts  critically.  Then  he  spoke 
to  them  with  strange  sounds,  patted  them,  stroked  them  down, 
felt  them,  slid  his  hand  down  them,  over  them,  under  them, 
and  felt  their  legs. 

Then,  he  looked  up  from  stooping  there  under  the  horses, 
with  a  long,  slow  look  of  his  yellow  eyes,  at  Alvina.  She 
felt  unconsciously  flattered.  His  long,  yellow  look  lingered, 
holding  her  eyes.  She  wondered  what  he  was  thinking.  Yet 
he  never  spoke.  He  turned  again  to  the  horses.  They  seemed 
to  understand  him,  to  prick  up  alert. 

"  This  is  mine,"  he  said,  with  his  hand  on  the  neck  of  the 
old  thoroughbred.  It  was  a  bay  with  a  white  blaze. 

"  I  think  he's  nice,"  she  said.  "  He  seems  so  sensi- 
tive." 

"  In  England,"  he  answered  suddenly,  "  horses  live  a  long 
time,  because  they  don't  live  —  never  alive  —  see?  In  Eng- 
land railway-engines  are  alive,  and  horses  go  on  wheels." 
He  smiled  into  her  eyes  as  if  she  understood.  She  was  a 
trifle  nervous  as  he  smiled  at  her  from  out  of  the  stable,  so 
yellow-eyed  and  half-mysterious,  derisive.  Her  impulse  was 
to  turn  and  go  away  from  the  stable.  But  a  deeper  impulse 
made  her  smile  into  his  face,  as  she  said  to  him: 

"  They  like  you  to  touch  them." 

"Who?"  His  eyes  kept  hers.  Curious  how  dark  they 
seemed,  with  only  a  yellow  ring  of  pupil.  He  was  looking 
right  into  her,  beyond  her  usual  self,  impersonal. 

"  The  horses,"  she  said.  She  was  afraid  of  his  long,  cat- 
like look.  Yet  she  felt  convinced  of  his  ultimate  good- 
nature. He  seemed  to  her  to  be  the  only  passionately  good- 
natured  man  she  had  ever  seen.  She  watched  him  vaguely, 


160  THE  LOST  GIRL 

with  strange  vague  trust,  implicit  belief  in  him.     In  him  — 
in  what? 

That  afternoon  the  colliers  trooping  home  in  the  winter 
afternoon  were  rejoiced  with  a  spectacle:  Kishwegin,  in  her 
deerskin,  fringed  gaiters  and  fringed  frock  of  deerskin,  her 
long  hair  down  her  back,  and  with  marvellous  cloths  and 
trappings  on  her  steed,  riding  astride  on  a  tall  white  horse, 
followed  by  Max  in  chieftain's  robes  and  chieftain's  long 
head-dress  of  dyed  feathers,  then  by  the  others  in  war-paint 
and  feathers  and  brilliant  Navajo  blankets.  They  carried 
bows  and  spears.  Ciccio  was  without  his  blanket,  naked  to 
the  waist,  in  war-paint,  and  brandishing  a  long  spear.  He 
dashed  up  from  the  rear,  saluted  the  chieftain  with  his  arm 
and  his  spear  on  high  as  he  swept  past,  suddenly  drew  up 
his  rearing  steed,  and  trotted  slowly  back  again,  making  his 
horse  perform  its  paces.  He  was  extraordinarily  velvety  and 
alive  on  horseback. 

Crowds  of  excited,  shouting  children  ran  chattering  along 
the  pavements.  The  colliers,  as  they  tramped  grey  and 
heavy,  in  an  intermittent  stream  uphill  from  the  low  grey 
west,  stood  on  the  pavement  in  wonder  as  the  cavalcade  ap- 
proached and  passed,  jingling  the  silver  bells  of  its  trap- 
pings, vibrating  the  wonderful  colours  of  the  barred  blankets 
and  saddle  cloths,  the  scarlet  wool  of  the  accoutrements,  the 
bright  tips  of  feathers.  Women  shrieked  as  Ciccio,  in  his 
war-paint,  wheeled  near  the  pavement.  Children  screamed 
and  ran.  The  colliers  shouted.  Ciccio  smiled  in  his  terrify- 
ing war-paint,  brandished  his  spear  and  trotted  softly,  like 
a  flower  on  its  stem,  round  to  the  procession. 

Miss  Pinnegar  and  Alvina  and  James  Houghton  had  come 
round  into  Knarborough  Road  to  watch.  It  was  a  great 
moment.  Looking  along  the  road  they  saw  all  the  shop- 
keepers at  their  doors,  the  pavements  eager.  And  then,  in 
the  distance,  the  white  horse  jingling  its  trappings  of  scarlet 
hair  and  bells,  with  the  dusky  Kishwegin  sitting  on  the  saddle- 
blanket  of  brilliant,  lurid  stripes,  sitting  impassive  and  all 
dusky  above  that  intermittent  flashing  of  colour:  then  the 
chieftain,  dark-faced,  erect,  easy,  swathed  in  a  white  blanket, 
with  scarlet  and  black  stripes,  and  all  his  strange  crest  of 
white,  tip-dyed  feathers  swaying  down  his  back:  as  he  came 
nearer  one  saw  the  wolfskin  and  the  brilliant  moccasins  against 
the  black  sides  of  his  horse:  Louis  and  Goeffrey  followed, 


NATCHA-KEE-TAWARA  161 

lurid,  horrid  in  the  face,  wearing  blankets  with  stroke  after 
stroke  of  blazing  colour  upon  their  duskiness,  and  sitting 
stern,  holding  their  spears:  lastly,  Ciccio,  on  his  bay  horse 
with  a  green  seat,  flickering  hither  and  thither  in  the  rear,  his 
feathers  swaying,  his  horse  sweating,  his  face  ghastlily  smil- 
ing in  its  war-paint.  So  they  advanced  down  the  grey  pallor 
of  Knarborough  Road,  in  the  late  wintry  afternoon.  Some- 
where the  sun  was  setting,  and  far  overhead  was  a  flush  of 
orange. 

"Well  I  never!"  murmured  Miss  Pinnegar.  "Well  I 
never!  " 

The  strange  savageness  of  the  striped  Navajo  blankets 
seemed  to  her  unsettling,  advancing  down  Knarborough  Road : 
she  examined  Kishwegin  curiously. 

"  Can  you  believe  that  that's  Mr.  May  —  he's  exactly  like  a 
girl.  Well,  well  —  it  makes  you  wonder  what  is  and  what 
isn't.  But  aren't  they  good?  What?  Most  striking.  Ex- 
actly like  Indians.  You  can't  believe  your  eyes.  My  word 
what  a  terrifying  race  they — "  Here  she  uttered  a  scream 
and  ran  back  clutching  the  wall  as  Ciccio  swept  past,  brush- 
ing her  with  his  horse's  tail,  and  actually  swinging  his  spear 
so  as  to  touch  Alvina  and  James  Houghton  lightly  with  the 
butt  of  it.  James  too  started  with  a  cry,  the  mob  at  the 
corner  screamed.  But  Alvina  caught  the  slow,  mischievous 
smile  as  the  painted  horror  showed  his  teeth  in  passing;  she 
was  able  to  flash  back  an  excited  laugh.  She  felt  his  yellow- 
tawny  eyes  linger  on  her,  in  that  one  second,  as  if  negligently. 

"  I  call  that  too  much !  "  Miss  Pinnegar  was  crying,  thor- 
oughly upset.  "  Now  that  was  unnecessary !  Why  it  was 
enough  to  scare  one  to  death.  Besides,  it's  dangerous.  It 
ought  to  be  put  a  stop  to.  I  don't  believe  in  letting  these 
show-people  have  liberties." 

The  cavalcade  was  slowly  passing,  with  its  uneasy  horses 
and  its  flare  of  striped  colour  and  its  silent  riders.  Ciccio 
was  trotting  softly  back,  on  his  green  saddle-cloth,  suave  as 
velvet,  his  dusky,  naked  torso  beautiful. 

"Eh,  you'd  think  he'd  get  his  death,"  the  women  in  the 
crowd  were  saying. 

"A  proper  savage  one,  that.  Makes  your  blood  run 
cold—" 

"  Ay,  an'  a  man  for  all  that,  take  's  painted  face  for  what's 
worth.  A  tidy  man,  /  say." 


162  THE  LOST  GIRL 

He  did  not  look  at  Alvina.  The  faint,  mischievous  smile 
uncovered  his  teeth.  He  fell  in  suddenly  behind  Geoffrey, 
with  a  jerk  of  his  steed,  calling  out  to  Geoffrey  in  Italian. 

It  was  becoming  cold.  The  cavalcade  fell  into  a  trot, 
Mr.  May  shaking  rather  badly.  Ciccio  halted,  rested  his  lance 
against  a  lamp-post,  switched  his  green  blanket  from  be- 
neath him,  flung  it  round  him  as  he  sat,  and  darted  off. 
They  had  all  disappeared  over  the  brow  of  Lumley  Hill,  de- 
scending. He  was  gone  too.  In  the  wintry  twilight  the 
crowd  began,  lingeringly,  to  turn  away.  And  in  some  strange 
way,  it  manifested  its  disapproval  of  the  spectacle :  as  grown-up 
men  and  women,  they  were  a  little  bit  insulted  by  such  a 
show.  It  was  an  anachronism.  They  wanted  a  direct  ap- 
peal to  the  mind.  Miss  Pinnegar  expressed  it. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  when  she  was  safely  back  in  Manches- 
ter House,  with  the  gas  lighted,  and  as  she  was  pouring  the 
boiling  water  into  the  tea-pot,  "  You  may  say  what  you 
like.  It's  interesting  in  a  way,  just  to  show  what  savage 
Red-Indians  were  like.  But  it's  childish.  It's  only  child- 
ishness. I  can't  understand,  myself,  how  people  can  go  on 
liking  shows.  Nothing  happens.  It's  not  like  the  cinema, 
where  you  see  it  all  and  take  it  all  in  at  once;  you  know 
everything  at  a  glance.  You  don't  know  anything  by  look- 
ing at  these  people.  You  know  they're  only  men  dressed 
up3  for  money.  I  can't  see  why  you  should  encourage  it. 
I  don't  hold  with  idle  show-people,  parading  round,  I  don't, 
myself.  I  like  to  go  to  the  cinema  once  a  week.  It's  in- 
struction, you  take  it  all  in  at  a  glance,  all  you  need  to 
know,  and  it  lasts  you  for  a  week.  You  can  get  to  know 
everything  about  people's  actual  lives  from  the  cinema.  I 
don't  see  why  you  want  people  dressing  up  and  showing 
off." 

They  sat  down  to  their  tea  and  toast  and  marmalade,  dur- 
ing this  harangue.  Miss  Pinnegar  was  always  like  a  douche 
of  cold  water  to  Alvina,  bringing  her  back  to  consciousness 
after  a  delicious  excitement.  In  a  minute  Madame  and  Ciccio 
and  all  seemed  to  become  unreal  —  the  actual  unrealities : 
while  the  ragged  dithering  pictures  of  the  film  were  actual, 
real  as  the  day.  And  Alvina  was  always  put  out  when  this 
happened.  She  really  hated  Miss  Pinnegar.  Yet  she  had 
nothing  to  answer.  They  were  unreal,  Madame  and  Ciccio 
and  the  rest.  Ciccio  was  just  a  fantasy  blown  in  on  the 


NATCHA-KEE-TAWARA  163 

wind,  to  blow  away  again.  The  real,  permanent  thing  was 
Woodhouse,  the  semper  idem  Knarborough  Road,  and  the 
unchangeable  grubby  gloom  of  Manchester  House,  with  the 
stuffy,  padding  Miss  Pinnegar,  and  her  father,  whose  fingers, 
whose  very  soul  seemed  dirty  with  pennies.  These  were  the 
solid,  permanent  fact.  These  were  life  itself.  And  Ciccio, 
splashing  up  on  his  bay  horse  and  green  cloth,  he  was  a 
mountebank  and  an  extraneous  nonentity,  a  coloured  old  rag 
blown  down  the  Knarborough  Road  into  Limbo.  Into  Limbo. 
Whilst  Miss  Pinnegar  and  her  father  sat  frowsily  on  for  ever, 
eating  their  toast  and  cutting  off  the  crust,  and  sipping  their 
third  cup  of  tea.  They  would  never  blow  away  —  never, 
never.  Woodhouse  was  there  to  eternity.  And  the  Natcha- 
Kee-Tawara  Troupe  was  blowing  like  a  rag  of  old  paper 
into  Limbo.  Nothingness!  Poor  Madame!  Poor  gallant 
histrionic  Madame!  The  frowsy  Miss  Pinnegar  could 
crumple  her  up  and  throw  her  down  the  utilitarian  drain,  and 
have  done  with  her.  Whilst  Miss  Pinnegar  lived  on  for 
ever. 

This  put  Alvina  into  a  sharp  temper. 

"  Miss  Pinnegar,"  she  said.  "  I  do  think  you  go  on  in 
the  most  unattractive  way  sometimes.  You're  a  regular  spoil- 
sport." 

"  Well,"  said  Miss  Pinnegar  tartly.  "  I  don't  approve  of 
your  way  of  sport,  I'm  afraid." 

"  You  can't  disapprove  of  it  as  much  as  I  hate  your  spoil- 
sport existence,"  said  Alvina  in  a  flare. 

"Alvina,  are  you  mad!  "  said  her  father. 

"Wonder  I'm  not,"  said  Alvina,  "considering  what  my 
life  is." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

CICCIO 

MADAME  did  not  pick  up  her  spirits,  after  her  cold.  For 
two  days  she  lay  in  bed,  attended  by  Mrs.  Rollings  and  Alvina 
and  the  young  men.  But  she  was  most  careful  never  to 
give  any  room  for  scandal.  The  young  men  might  not  ap- 
proach her  save  in  the  presence  of  some  third  party.  And 
then  it  was  strictly  a  visit  of  ceremony  or  business. 

"  Oh,  your  Woodhouse,  how  glad  I  shall  be  when  I  have 
left  it,"  she  said  to  Alvina.  "  I  feel  it  is  unlucky  for  me." 

"  Do  you?  "  said  Alvina.  "  But  if  you'd  had  this  bad  cold 
in  some  places,  you  might  have  been  much  worse,  don't  you 
think." 

"  Oh  my  dear !  "  cried  Madame.  "  Do  you  think  I  could 
confuse  you  in  my  dislike  of  this  Woodhouse?  Oh  no! 
You  are  not  Woodhouse.  On  the  contrary,  I  think  it  is  un- 
kind for  you  also,  this  place.  You  look  —  also  —  what  shall 
I  say  —  thin,  not  very  happy." 

It  was  a  note  of  interrogation. 

"  I'm  sure  I  dislike  Woodhouse  much  more  than  you  can," 
replied  Alvina. 

"  I  am  sure.  Yes !  I  am  sure.  I  see  it.  Why  don't  you 
go  away?  Why  don't  you  marry?  " 

"Nobody  wants  to  marry  me,"  said  Alvina. 

Madame  looked  at  her  searchingly,  with  shrewd  black  eyes 
under  her  arched  eyebrows. 

"How!  "  she  exclaimed.  "How  don't  they?  You  are  not 
bad  looking,  only  a  little  too  thin  —  too  haggard  — 

She  watched  Alvina.     Alvina  laughed  uncomfortably. 

"  Is  there  nobody?  "  persisted  Madame. 

"Not  now,"  said  Alvina.  "Absolutely  nobody."  She 
looked  with  a  confused  laugh  into  Madame's  strict  black 
eyes.  "You  see  I  didn't  care  for  the  Woodhouse  young 
men,  either.  I  couldn't" 

Madame  nodded  slowly  up  and  down.  A  secret  satisfac- 

164 


CICCIO  165 

tion  came  over  her  pallid,  waxy  countenance,  in  which  her 
black  eyes  were  like  twin  swift  extraneous  creatures:  oddly 
like  two  bright  little  dark  animals  in  the  snow. 

"Sure!"  she  said,  sapient.  "Sure!  How  could  you? 
But  there  are  other  men  besides  these  here — "  She  waved 
her  hand  to  the  window. 

"I  don't  meet  them,  do  I?  "  said  Alvina. 

"  No,  not  often.     But  sometimes !   sometimes !  " 

There  was  a  silence  between  the  two  women,  very  preg- 
nant. 

"  Englishwomen,"  said  Madame,  "  are  so  practical.  Why 
are  they?  " 

"  I  suppose  they  can't  help  it,"  said  Alvina.  "  But  they're 
not  half  so  practical  and  clever  as  you,  Madame." 

"Oh  la  —  la!  I  am  practical  differently.  I  am  practical 
im-practically  — "  she  stumbled  over  the  words.  "  But  your 
Sue  now,  in  Jude  the  Obscure  —  is  it  not  an  interesting  book? 
And  is  she  not  always  too  prac-tically  prac-tical.  If  she  had 
been  unpractically  practical  she  could  have  been  quite  happy. 
Do  you  know  what  I  mean? — no.  But  she  is  ridiculous. 
Sue:  so  Anna  Karenine.  Ridiculous  both.  Don't  you 
think?  " 

"Why?"  said  Alvina. 

"  Why  did  they  both  make  everybody  unhappy,  when  they 
had  the  man  they  wanted,  and  enough  money?  I  think  they 
are  both  so  silly.  If  they  had  been  beaten,  they  would  have 
lost  all  their  practical  ideas  and  troubles,  merely  forgot  them, 
and  been  happy  enough.  I  am  a  woman  who  says  it.  Such 
ideas  they  have  are  not  tragical.  No,  not  at  all.  They  are 
nonsense,  you  see,  nonsense.  That  is  all.  Nonsense.  Sue 
and  Anna,  they  are  —  non-sensical.  That  is  all.  No  tragedy 
whatsoever.  Nonsense.  I  am  a  woman.  I  know  men  also. 
And  I  know  nonsense  when  I  see  it.  Englishwomen  are  all 
nonsense:  the  worst  women  in  the  world  for  nonsense." 

"Well,  I  am  English,"  said  Alvina. 

"Yes,  my  dear,  you  are  English.  But  you  are  not  neces- 
sarily so  non-sensical.  Why  are  you  at  all?  " 

"Nonsensical?  "  laughed  Alvina.  "But  I  don't  know  what 
you  call  my  nonsense." 

"  Ah,"  said  Madame  wearily.  "  They  never  understand. 
But  I  like  you,  my  dear.  I  am  an  old  woman  — " 

"Younger  than  I,"  said  Alvina. 


166  THE  LOST  GIRL 

"  Younger  than  you,  because  I  am  practical  from  the  heart, 
and  not  only  from  the  head.  You  are  not  practical  from 
the  heart.  And  yet  you  have  a  heart." 

"  But  all  Englishwomen  have  good  hearts,"  protested  Al- 
vina. 

"  No!  No!  "  objected  Madame.  "  They  are  all  ve-ry  kind, 
and  ve-ry  practical  with  their  kindness.  But  they  have  no 
heart  in  all  their  kindness.  It  is  all  head,  all  head:  the  kind- 
ness of  the  head." 

"  I  can't  agree  with  you,"  said  Alvina. 

"  No.  No.  I  don't  expect  it.  But  I  don't  mind.  You  are 
very  kind  to  me,  and  I  thank  you.  But  it  is  from  the  head, 
you  see.  And  so  I  thank  you  from  the  head.  From  the 
heart  —  no." 

Madame  plucked  her  white  fingers  together  and  laid  them 
on  her  breast  with  a  gesture  of  repudiation.  Her  black  eyes 
stared  spitefully. 

"  But  Madame,"  said  Alvina,  nettled,  "  I  should  never 
be  half  such  a  good  business  woman  as  you.  Isn't  that  from 
the  head?  " 

"Ha!  of  course!  Of  course  you  wouldn't  be  a  good  busi- 
ness woman.  Because  you  are  kind  from  the  head.  I — " 
she  tapped  her  forehead  and  shook  her  head  — "  I  am  not  kind 
from  the  head.  From  the  head  I  am  business-woman,  good 
business-woman.  Of  course  I  am  a  good  business-woman  — 
of  course!  But — "  here  she  changed  her  expression,  widened 
her  eyes,  and  laid  her  hand  on  her  breast  — "  when  the  heart 
speaks  —  then  I  listen  with  the  heart.  I  do  not  listen  with 
the  head.  The  heart  hears  the  heart.  The  head  —  that  is 
another  thing.  But  you  have  blue  eyes,  you  cannot  under- 
stand. Only  dark  eyes  — "  She  paused  and  mused. 

"And  what  about  yellow  eyes?"  asked  Alvina,  laughing. 

Madame  darted  a  look  at  her,  her  lips  curling  with  a  very 
faint,  fine  smile  of  derision.  Yet  for  the  first  time  her  black 
eyes  dilated  and  became  warm. 

"Yellow  eyes  like  Ciccio's?  "  she  said,  with  her  great 
watchful  eyes  and  her  smiling,  subtle  mouth.  "They  are 
the  darkest  of  all."  And  she  shook  her  head  roguishly. 

"Are  they!  "  said  Alvina  confusedly,  feeling  a  blush  burn- 
ing up  her  throat  into  her  face. 

"Ha  — ha!"  laughed  Madame.  "Ha-ha!  I  am  an  old 
woman,  you  see.  My  heart  is  old  enough  to  be  kind,  and 


CICCIO  167 

my  head  is  old  enough  to  be  clever.  My  heart  is  kind  to 
few  people  —  very  few  —  especially  in  this  England.  My 
young  men  know  that.  But  perhaps  to  you  it  is  kind." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Alvina. 

"There!  From  the  head  Thank  you.  It  is  not  well  done, 
you  see.  You  see!  " 

But  Alvina  ran  away  in  confusion.  She  felt  Madame  was 
having  her  on  a  string. 

Mr.  May  enjoyed  himself  hugely  playing  Kishwegin.  When 
Madame  came  downstairs  Louis,  who  was  a  good  satirical 
mimic,  imitated  him.  Alvina  happened  to  come  into  their  sit- 
ting-room in  the  midst  of  their  bursts  of  laughter.  They  all 
stopped  and  looked  at  her  cautiously. 

"  Continuez !  Continuez !  "  said  Madame  to  Louis.  And 
to  Alvina:  "Sit  down,  my  dear,  and  see  what  a  good  actor 
we  have  in  our  Louis." 

Louis  glanced  round,  laid  his  head  a  little  on  one  side  and 
drew  in  his  chin,  with  Mr.  May's  smirk  exactly,  and  wagging 
his  tail  slightly,  he  commenced  to  play  the  false  Kishwegin. 
He  sidled  and  bridled  and  ejaculated  with  raised  hands,  and 
in  the  dumb  show  the  tall  Frenchman  made  such  a  ludicrous 
caricature  of  Mr.  Houghton's  manager  that  Madame  wept 
again  with  laughter,  whilst  Max  leaned  back  against  the  wall 
and  giggled  continuously  like  some  pot  involuntarily  boiling. 
Geoffrey  spread  his  shut  fists  across  the  table  and  shouted 
with  laughter,  Ciccio  threw  back  his  head  and  showed  all  his 
teeth  in  a  loud  laugh  of  delighted  derision.  Alvina  laughed 
also.  But  she  flushed.  There  was  a  certain  biting,  annihilat- 
ing quality  in  Louis'  derision  of  the  absentee.  And  the  others 
enjoyed  it  so  much.  At  moments  Alvina  caught  her  lip  be- 
tween her  teeth,  it  was  so  screamingly  funny,  and  so  an- 
nihilating. She  laughed  in  spite  of  herself.  In  spite  of 
herself  she  was  shaken  into  a  convulsion  of  laughter.  Louis 
was  masterful  —  he  mastered  her  psyche.  She  laughed  till 
her  head  lay  helpless  on  the  chair,  she  could  not  move. 
Helpless,  inert  she  lay,  in  her  orgasm  of  laughter.  The  end 
of  Mr.  May.  Yet  she  was  hurt. 

And  then  Madame  wiped  her  own  shrewd  black  eyes,  and 
nodded  slow  approval.  Suddenly  Louis  started  and  held  up 
a  warning  finger.  They  all  at  once  covered  their  smiles  and 
pulled  themselves  together.  Only  Alvina  lay  silently  laugh- 
ing. 


168  THE  LOST  GIRL 

"  Oh,  good  morning,  Mrs.  Rollings !  "  they  heard  Mr.  May's 
voice.  "Your  company  is  lively.  Is  Miss  Houghton  here? 
May  I  go  through?  " 

They  heard  his  quick  little  step  and  his  quick  little  tap. 

"  Come  in,"  called  Madame. 

The  Natcha-Kee-Tawaras  all  sat  with  straight  faces.  Only 
poor  Alvina  lay  back  in  her  chair  in  a  new  weak  convulsion. 
Mr.  May  glanced  quickly  round,  and  advanced  to  Madame. 

"  Oh,  good-morning,  Madame,  so  glad  to  see  you  down- 
stairs," he  said,  taking  her  hand  and  bowing  ceremoniously. 
"  Excuse  my  intruding  on  your  mirth !  "  He  looked  archly 
round.  Alvina  was  still  incompetent.  She  lay  leaning  side- 
ways in  her  chair,  and  could  not  even  speak  to  him. 

"It  was  evidently  a  good  joke,"  he  said.  "May  I  hear 
it  too?  " 

"  Oh,"  said  Madame,  drawling.  "  It  was  no  joke.  It  was 
only  Louis  making  a  fool  of  himself,  doing  a  turn." 

"  Must  have  been  a  good  one,"  said  Mr.  May.  "  Can't  we 
put  it  on?  " 

"  No,"  drawled  Madame,  "  it  was  nothing  —  just  a  non- 
sensical mood  of  the  moment.  Won't  you  sit  down?  You 
would  like  a  little  whiskey? — yes?" 

Max  poured  out  whiskey  and  water  for  Mr.  May. 

Alvina  sat  with  her  face  averted,  quiet,  but  unable  to  speak 
to  Mr.  May.  Max  and  Louis  had  become  polite.  Geoffrey 
stared  with  his  big,  dark-blue  eyes  stolidly  at  the  newcomer. 
Ciccio  leaned  with  his  arms  on  his  knees,  looking  sideways 
under  his  long  lashes  at  the  inert  Alvina. 

"  Well,"  said  Madame,  "  and  are  you  satisfied  with  your 
houses?  " 

"Oh  yes,"  said  Mr.  May.  "Quite!  The  two  nights  have 
been  excellent.  Excellent!  " 

"  Ah  —  I  am  glad.  And  Miss  Houghton  tells  me  I  should 
not  dance  tomorrow,  it  is  too  soon." 

"  Miss  Houghton  knows"  said  Mr.  May  archly. 

"Of  course!"  said  Madame.  "I  must  do  as  she  tells 
me." 

"  Why  yes,  since  it  is  for  your  good,  and  not  hers." 

"Of  course!     Of  course!     It  is  very  kind  of  her." 

"Miss  Houghton  is  most  kind  —  to  every  one,'  said  Mr. 
May. 

"  I  am  sure,"  said  Madame.     "  And  I  am  very  glad  you 


CICCIO  169 

have  been  such  a  good  Kishwegin.     That  is  very  nice  also." 

"  Yes,"  replied  Mr.  May.  "  I  begin  to  wonder  if  I  have 
mistaken  my  vocation.  I  should  have  been  on  the  boards, 
instead  of  behind  them." 

"No  doubt,"  said  Madame.     "But  it  is   a  little  late — " 

The  eyes  of  the  foreigners,  watching  him,  flattered  Mr. 
May. 

"  I'm  afraid  it  is,"  he  said.  "  Yes.  Popular  taste  is  a 
mysterious  thing.  How  do  you  feel,  now?  Do  you  feel  they 
appreciate  your  work  as  much  as  they  did?  " 

Madame  watched  him  with  her  black  eyes. 

"  No,"  she  replied.  "  They  don't.  The  pictures  are  driv- 
ing us  away.  Perhaps  we  shall  last  for  ten  years  more.  And 
after  that,  we  are  finished." 

"  You  think  so,"  said  Mr.  May,  looking  serious. 

"  I  am  sure,"  she  said,  nodding  sagely. 

"  But  why  is  it?  "  said  Mr.  May,  angry  and  petulant. 

"Why  is  it?  I  don't  know.  I  don't  know.  The  pictures 
are  cheap,  and  they  are  easy,  and  they  cost  the  audience 
nothing,  no  feeling  of  the  heart,  no  appreciation  of  the  spirit, 
cost  them  nothing  of  these.  And  so  they  like  them,  and  they 
don't  like  us,  because  they  must  feel  the  things  we  do,  from 
the  heart,  and  appreciate  them  from  the  spirit.  There!  " 

"And  they  don't  want  to  appreciate  and  to  feel?  "  said  Mr. 
May. 

"  No.  They  don't  want.  They  want  it  all  through  the 
eye,  and  finished  —  so !  Just  curiosity,  impertinent  curiosity. 
That's  all.  In  all  countries,  the  same.  And  so  —  in  ten 
years'  time  —  no  more  Kishwegin  at  all." 

"No.  Then  what  future  have  you?  "  said  Mr.  May  gloom- 
ily. 

"  I  may  be  dead  —  who  knows.  If  not,  I  shall  have  my 
little  apartment  in  Lausanne,  or  in  Bellizona,  and  I  shall 
be  a  bourgeoise  once  more,  and  the  good  Catholic  v/hich  I 
am." 

"  Which  I  am  also,"  said  Mr.  May. 

"  So!     Are  you?     An  American  Catholic?  " 

"  Well  —  English  —  Irish  —  American." 

"So!" 

Mr.  May  never  felt  more  gloomy  in  his  life  than  he  "did  that 
day.  Where,  finally,  was  he  to  rest  his  troubled  head? 

There  was  not  all  peace  in  the  Natcha-Kee-Tawara  group 


170  THE  LOST  GIRL 

either.  For  Thursday,  there  was  to  be  a  change  of  program  — 
"Kishwegin's  Wedding — "  (with  the  white  prisoner,  be  it 
said)  —  was  to  take  the  place  of  the  previous  scene.  Max 
of  course  was  the  director  of  the  rehearsal.  Madame  would 
not  come  near  the  theatre  when  she  herself  was  not  to  be 
acting. 

Though  very  quiet  and  unobtrusive  as  a  rule,  Max  could 
suddenly  assume  an  air  of  hauteur  and  overbearing  which 
was  really  very  annoying.  Geoffrey  always  fumed  under  it. 
But  Ciccio  it  put  into  unholy,  ungovernable  tempers.  For 
Max,  suddenly,  would  reveal  his  contempt  of  the  Eyetalian, 
as  he  called  Ciccio,  using  the  Cockney  word. 

"Bah!  quelle  tete  de  veau,"  said  Max,  suddenly  con- 
temptuous and  angry  because  Ciccio,  who  really  was  slow  at 
taking  in  the  things  said  to  him,  had  once  more  failed  to 
understand. 

"  Comment?  "  queried  Ciccio,  in  his  slow,  derisive  way. 

"Comment!"  sneered  Max,  in  echo.  "What?  What? 
Why  what  did  I  say?  Calf's-head  I  said.  Pig's-head,  if  that 
seems  more  suitable  to  you." 

"To  whom?     To  me  or  to  you?  "  said  Ciccio,  sidling  up. 

"  To  you,  lout  of  an  Italian." 

Max's  colour  was  up,  he  held  himself  erect,  his  brown 
hair  seemed  to  rise  erect  from  his  forehead,  his  blue  eyes 
glared  fierce. 

"That  is  to  say,  to  me,  from  an  uncivilized  German  pig, 
ah?  ah?  " 

All  this  in  French.  Alvina,  as  she  sat  at  the  piano,  saw 
Max  tall  and  blanched  with  anger;  Ciccio  with  his  neck  stuck 
out,  oblivious  and  convulsed  with  rage,  stretching  his  neck 
at  Max.  All  were  in  ordinary  dress,  but  without  coats,  act- 
ing in  their  shirt-sleeves.  Ciccio  was  clutching  a  property 
knife. 

"Now!  None  of  that!  None  of  that!"  said  Mr.  May, 
peremptory.  But  Ciccio,  stretching  forward  taut  and  im- 
mobile with  rage,  was  quite  unconscious.  His  hand  was 
fast  on  his  stage  knife. 

"A  dirty  Eyetalian,"  said  Max,  in  English,  turning  to  Mr. 
May.  "  They  understand  nothing." 

But  the  last  word  was  smothered  in  Ciccio's  spring  and 
stab.  Max  half  started  on  to  his  guard,  received  the  blow 
on  his  collar-bone,  near  the  pommel  of  the  shoulder,  reeled 


CICCIO  171 

round  on  top  of  Mr.  May,  whilst  Ciccio  sprang  like  a  cat  down 
from  the  stage  and  bounded  across  the  theatre  and  out  of 
the  door,  leaving  the  knife  rattling  on  the  boards  behind 
him.  Max  recovered  and  sprang  like  a  demon,  white  with 
rase,  straight  out  into  the  theatre  after  him. 

"Stop  —  stop — !"  cried  Mr.  May. 

"Halte,  Max!  Max,  Max,  attends!"  cried  Louis  and 
Geoffrey,  as  Louis  sprang  down  after  his  friend.  Thud  went 
the  boards  again,  with  the  spring  of  a  man. 

Alvina,  who  had  been  seated  waiting  at  the  piano  below, 
started  up  and  overturned  her  chair  as  Ciccio  rushed  past  her. 
Now  Max,  white,  with  set  blue  eyes,  was  upon  her. 

"Don't — !  "  she  cried,  lifting  her  hand  to  stop  his  pro- 
gress. He  saw  her,  swerved,  and  hesitated,  turned  to  leap 
over  the  seats  and  avoid  her,  when  Louis  caught  him  and 
flung  his  arms  round  him. 

"  Max  —  attends,  ami !  Laisse  le  partir.  Max,  tu  sais  que 
je  t'aime.  Tu  le  sais,  ami.  Tu  le  sais.  Laisse  le  partir." 

Max  and  Louis  wrestled  together  in  the  gangway,  Max 
looking  down  with  hate  on  his  friend.  But  Louis  was  de- 
termined also,  he  wrestled  as  firecely  as  Max,  and  at  last  the 
latter  began  to  yield.  He  was  panting  and  beside  himself. 
Louis  still  held  him  by  the  hand  and  by  the  arm. 

"  Let  him  go,  brother,  he  isn't  worth  it.  What  does  he 
understand,  Max,  dear  brother,  what  does  he  understand? 
These  fellows  from  the  south,  they  are  half  children,  half 
animal.  They  don't  know  what  they  are  doing.  Has  he 
hurt  you,  dear  friend?  Has  he  hurt  you?  It  was  a  dummy 
knife,  but  it  was  a  heavy  blow  —  the  dog  of  an  Italian.  Let 
us  see." 

So  gradually  Max  was  brought  to  stand  still.  From  under 
the  edge  of  his  waistcoat,  on  the  shoulder,  the  blood  was  al- 
ready staining  the  shirt. 

"Are  you  cut,  brother,  brother?"  said  Louis.  "Let  us 
see." 

Max  now  moved  his  arm  with  pain.  They  took  off  his 
waistcoat  and  pushed  back  his  shirt.  A  nasty  blackening 
wound,  with  the  skin  broken. 

"  If  the  bone  isn't  broken !  "  said  Louis  anxiously.  "  If 
the  bone  isn't  broken !  Lift  thy  arm,  f rere  —  lift.  It  hurts 
you  —  so  —  No  —  no  —  it  is  not  broken  —  no  —  the  bone  is 
not  broken." 


172  THE  LOST  GIRL 

"There  is  no  bone  broken,  I  know,"  said  Max. 

"  The  animal.     He  hasn't  done  that,  at  least." 

"Where  do  you  imagine  he's  gone?  "  asked  Mr.  May. 

The  foreigners  shrugged  their  shoulders,  and  paid  no  heed. 
There  was  no  more  rehearsal. 

"We  had  best  go  home  and  speak  to  Madame,"  said  Mr. 
May,  who  was  very  frightened  for  his  evening  performance. 

They  locked  up  the  Endeavour.  Alvina  was  thinking  of 
Ciccio.  He  was  gone  in  his  shirt  sleeves.  She  had  taken  his 
jacket  and  hat  from  the  dressing-room  at  the  back,  and  car- 
ried them  under  her  rain-coat,  which  she  had  on  her  arm. 

Madame  was  in  a  state  of  perturbation.  She  had  heard 
some  one  come  in  at  the  back,  and  go  upstairs,  and  go  out 
again.  Mrs.  Rollings  had  told  her  it  was  the  Italian,  who 
had  come  in  in  his  shirt-sleeves  and  gone  out  in  his  black 
coat  and  black  hat,  taking  his  bicycle,  without  saying  a  word. 
Poor  Madame!  She  was  struggling  into  her  shoes,  she  had 
her  hat  on,  when  the  others  arrived. 

"  What  is  it?  "  she  cried. 

She  heard  a  hurried  explanation  from  Louis. 

"Ah,  the  animal,  the  animal,  he  wasn't  worth  all  my 
pains!  "  cried  poor  Madame,  sitting  with  one  shoe  off  and 
one  shoe  on.  "Why,  Max,  why  didst  thou  not  remain  man 
enough  to  control  that  insulting  mountain  temper  of  thine. 
Have  I  not  said,  and  said,  and  said  that  in  the  Natcha-Kee- 
Tawara  there  was  but  one  nation,  the  Red  Indian,  and  but 
one  tribe,  the  tribe  of  Kishwe?  And  now  thou  hast  called 
him  a  dirty  Italian,  or  a  dog  of  an  Italian,  and  he  has  be- 
haved like  an  animal.  Too  much,  too  much  of  an  animal, 
too  little  esprit.  But  thou,  Max,  art  almost  as  bad.  Thy 
temper  is  a  devil's,  which  maybe  is  worse  than  an  animal's. 
Ah,  this  Woodhouse,  a  curse  is  on  it,  I  know  it  is.  Would 
we  were  away  from  it.  Will  the  week  never  pass?  We 
shall  have  to  find  Ciccio.  Without  him  the  company  is  ruined 

—  until  I  get  a  substitute.     I  must  get  a  substitute.     And  how? 

—  and  where?  —  in  this  country?  —  tell  me  that.     I  am  tired 
of  Natcha-Kee-Tawara.     There  is  no  true  tribe  of  Kishwe  — 
no,  never.     I  have  had  enough  of  Natcha-Kee-Tawara.     Let 
us  break  up,  let  us  part,  mes  braves,  let  us  say  adieu  here  in 
this  funeste  Woodhouse." 

"  Oh,  Madame,  dear  Madame,"  said  Louis,  "  let  us  hope. 
Let  us  swear  a  closer  fidelity,  dear  Madame,  our  Kishwegin. 


CICCIO  173 

Let  us  never  part.  Max,  thou  dost  not  want  to  part,  brother, 
well-loved?  Thou  dost  not  want  to  part,  brother  whom  I 
love?  And  thou,  Geoffrey,  thou — " 

Madame  burst  into  tears,  Louis  wept  too,  even  Max  turned 
aside  his  face,  with  tears.  Alvina  stole  out  of  the  room,  fol- 
lowed by  Mr.  May. 

In  a  while  Madame  came  out  to  them. 

"Oh,"  she  said.  "You  have  not  gone  away!  We  are 
wondering  which  way  Ciccio  will  have  gone,  on  to  Knar- 
borough  or  to  Marchay.  Geoffrey  will  go  on  his  bicycle  to 
find  him.  But  shall  it  be  to  Knarborough  or  to  Marchay?  " 

"Ask  the  policeman  in  the  market-place,"  said  Alvina. 
"He's  sure  to  have  noticed  him,  because  Ciccio's  yellow 
bicycle  is  so  uncommon." 

Mr.  May  tripped  out  on  this  errand,  while  the  others  dis- 
cussed among  themselves  where  Ciccio  might  be. 

Mr.  May  returned,  and  said  that  Ciccio  had  ridden  off  down 
the  Knarborough  Road.  It  was  raining  slightly. 

"Ah!"  said  Madame.  "And  now  how  to  find  him,  in 
that  great  town.  I  am  afraid  he  will  leave  us  without  pity." 

"  Surely  he  will  want  to  speak  to  Geoff rey  before  he 
goes,"  said  Louis.  "  They  were  always  good  friends." 

They  all  looked  at  Geoffrey.  He  shrugged  his  broad  shoul- 
ders. 

"  Always  good  friends,"  he  said.  "  Yes.  He  will  per- 
haps wait  for  me  at  his  cousin's  in  Battersea.  In  Knar- 
borough, I  don't  know." 

"  How  much  money  had  he?  "  asked  Mr.  May. 

Madame  spread  her  hands  and  lifted  her  shoulders. 

"Who  knows?"  she  said. 

"  These  Italians,"  said  Louis,  turning  to  Mr.  May.  "  They 
have  always  money.  In  another  country,  they  will  not  spend 
one  sou  if  they  can  help.  They  are  like  this  — "  And  he 
made  the  Neapolitan  gesture  drawing  in  the  air  with  his 
fingers. 

"But  would  he  abandon  you  all  without  a  word?  "  cried 
Mr.  May. 

"Yes!  Yes!  "  said  Madame,  with  a  sort  of  stoic  pathos. 
"  He  would.  He  alone  would  do  such  a  thing.  But  he 
would  do  it." 

"And  what  point  would  he  make  for?" 

"What  point?     You  mean  where  would  he  go?     To  Bat- 


174  THE  LOST  GIRL 

tersea,  no  doubt,  to  his  cousin  —  and  then  to  Italy,  if  he 
thinks  he  has  saved  enough  money  to  buy  land,  or  what- 
ever it  is." 

"And  so  good-bye  to  him,"  said  Mr.  May  bitterly. 

"  Geoffrey  ought  to  know,"  said  Madame,  looking  at 
Geoffrey. 

Geoffrey  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  would  not  give  his 
comrade  away. 

"  No,"  he  said.  "  I  don't  know.  He  will  leave  a  mes- 
sage at  Battersea,  I  know.  But  I  don't  know  if  he  will  go 
to  Italy." 

"And  you  don't  know  where  to  find  him  in  Knar- 
borough?  "  asked  Mr.  May,  sharply,  very  much  on  the  spot. 

"No  —  I  don't.  Perhaps  at  the  station  he  will  go  by 
train  to  London."  It  was  evident  Geoffrey  was  not  going 
to  help  Mr.  May. 

"Alors!  "  said  Madame,  cutting  through  this  futility. 
"  Go  thou  to  Knarborough,  Geoffrey,  and  see  —  and  be  back 
at  the  theatre  for  work.  Go  now.  And  if  thou  can'st  find 
him,  bring  him  again  to  us.  Tell  him  to  come  out  of  kind- 
ness to  me.  Tell  him." 

And  she  waved  the  young  man  away.  He  departed  on 
his  nine  mile  ride  through  the  rain  to  Knarborough. 

"  They  know,"  said  Madame.  "  They  know  each  other's 
places.  It  is  a  little  more  than  a  year  since  we  came  to 
Knarborough.  But  they  will  remember." 

Geoffrey  rode  swiftly  as  possible  through  the  mud.  He 
did  not  care  very  much  whether  he  found  his  friend  or  not. 
He  liked  the  Italian,  but  he  never  looked  on  him  as  a  per- 
manency. He  knew  Ciccio  was  dissatisfied,  and  wanted  a 
change.  He  knew  that  Italy  was  pulling  him  away  from  the 
troupe,  with  which  he  had  been  associated  now  for  three 
years  or  more.  And  the  Swiss  from  Martigny  knew  that 
the  Neapolitan  would  go,  breaking  all  ties,  one  day  suddenly 
back  to  Italy.  It  was  so,  and  Geoffrey  was  philosophical 
about  it. 

He  rode  into  town,  and  the  first  thing  he  did  was  to  seek 
out  the  music-hall  artistes  at  their  lodgings.  He  knew  a 
good  many  of  them.  They  gave  him  a  welcome  and  a 
whiskey  —  but  none  of  them  had  seen  Ciccio.  They  sent 
him  off  to  other  artistes,  other  lodging-houses.  He  went  the 
round  of  associates  known  and  unknown,  of  lodgings  strange 


CICCIO  175 

and  familiar,  of  third-rate  possible  public  houses.  Then  he 
went  to  the  Italians  down  in  the  Marsh  —  he  knew  these 
people  always  ask  for  one  another.  And  then,  hurrying,  he 
dashed  to  the  Midland  Station,  and  then  to  the  Great  Cen- 
tral Station,  asking  the  porters  on  the  London  departure 
platform  if  they  had  seen  his  pal,  a  man  with  a  yellow 
bicycle,  and  a  black  bicycle  cape.  All  to  no  purpose. 

Geoffrey  hurriedly  lit  his  lamp  and  swung  off  in  the  dark 
back  to  Woodhouse.  He  was  a  powerfully  built,  imper- 
turbable fellow.  He  pressed  slowly  uphill  through  the 
streets,  then  ran  downhill  into  the  darkness  of  the  industrial 
country.  He  had  continually  to  cross  the  new  tram-lines, 
which  were  awkward,  and  he  had  occasionally  to  dodge  the 
brilliantly-illuminated  tram-cars  which  threaded  their  way 
across-country  through  so  much  darkness.  All  the  time  it 
rained,  and  his  back  wheel  slipped  under  him,  in  the  mud 
and  on  the  new  tram-track. 

As  he  pressed  in  the  long  darkness  that  lay  between 
Slaters  Mill  and  Durbeyhouses,  he  saw  a  light  ahead  — 
another  cyclist.  He  moved  to  his  side  of  the  road.  The 
light  approached  very  fast.  It  was  a  strong  acetylene  flare. 
He  watched  it.  A  flash  and  a  splash  and  he  saw  the  humped 
back  of  what  was  probably  Ciccio  going  by  at  a  great  pace 
on  the  low  racing  machine. 

"Hi  Cic' — !  Ciccio!"  he  yelled,  dropping  off  his  own 
bicycle. 

"  Ha-er-er !  "  he  heard  the  answering  shout,  unmistakably 
Italian,  way  down  the  darkness. 

He  turned  —  saw  the  other  cyclist  had  stopped.  The  flare 
swung  round,  and  Ciccio  softly  rode  up.  He  dropped  off 
beside  Geoffrey. 

"Toi!  "  said  Ciccio. 

"He!     Ouvas-tu?" 

"He!"   ejaculated   Ciccio. 

Their  conversation  consisted  a  good  deal  in  noises  vari- 
ously ejaculated. 

"  Coming  back?  "  asked   Geoffrey. 

"Where've  you  been?  "  retorted  Ciccio. 

"  Knarborough  —  looking  for  thee.    Where  have  you  — ?  " 

"Buckled  my  front  wheel  at  Durbeyhouses." 

"  Come  off?  " 

"He!" 


176  THE  LOST  GIRL 

"Hurt?" 

"Nothing." 

"Max  is  all  right." 

"Merde!" 

"Come  on,  come  back  with  me." 

14  Nay."     Ciccio  shook  his  head. 

"  Madame's  crying.     Wants  thee  to  come  back." 

Ciccio  shook  his  head. 

"Come  on,  Cic' — "  said  Geoffrey. 

Ciccio  shook  his  head. 

"Never?"  said   Geoffrey. 

"  Basta  —  had  enough,"  said  Ciccio,  with  an  invisible  grim- 
ace. 

"  Come  for  a  bit,  and  we'll  clear  together." 

Ciccio  again  shook  his  head. 

"What,  is  it  adieu?" 

Ciccio  did  not  speak. 

"Don't  go,  comrade,"  said  Geoffrey. 

"  Faut,"  said  Ciccio,  slightly  derisive. 

"Eh  alors!     I'd  like  to  come  with  thee.    What?  " 

"Where?" 

"  Doesn't  matter.     Thou'rt  going  to  Italy?  " 

"Who  knows! — seems  so." 

"  I'd  like  to  go  back." 

"Eh  alors!"  Ciccio  half  veered  round. 

"  Wait  for  me  a  few  days,"  said  Geoffrey. 

"Where?" 

"  See  you  tomorrow  in  Knarborough.  Go  to  Mrs.  Pym's, 
6  Hampden  Street.  Gittiventi  is  there.  Right,  eh?  " 

"  I'll  think  about  it." 

"Eleven  o'clock,  eh?" 

"  I'll  think  about  it." 

"Friends  ever  —  Ciccio  —  eh?"  Geoffrey  held  out  his 
hand. 

Ciccio  slowly  took  it.  The  two  men  leaned  to  each  other 
and  kissed  farewell,  on  either  cheek. 

"  Tomorrow,  Cic' —  " 

"Au  revoir,  Gigi." 

Ciccio  dropped  on  to  his  bicycle  and  was  gone  in  a  breath. 
Geoffrey  waited  a  moment  for  a  tram  which  was  rushing 
brilliantly  up  to  him  in  the  rain.  Then  he  mounted  and 
rode  in  the  opposite  direction.  He  went  straight  down  to 


CICCIO  177 

Lumley,  and  Madame  had  to  remain  on  tenterhooks  till  ten 
o'clock. 

She  heard  the  news,  and  said: 

"Tomorrow  I  go  to  fetch  him."  And  with  this  she  went 
to  bed. 

In  the  morning  she  was  up  betimes,  sending  a  note  to 
Alvina.  Alvina  appeared  at  nine  o'clock. 

"You  will  come  with  me?  "  said  Madame.  "Come.  To- 
gether we  will  go  to  Knarborough  and  bring  back  the  naughty 
Ciccio.  Come  with  me,  because  I  haven't  all  my  strength. 
Yes,  you  will?  Good!  Good!  Let  us  tell  the  young  men, 
and  we  will  go  now,  on  the  tram-car." 

"But  I  am  not  properly  dressed,"  said  Alvina. 

"Who  will  see?"  said  Madame.     "Come,  let  us  go." 

They  told  Geoffrey  they  would  meet  him  at  the  corner  of 
Hampden  Street  at  five  minutes  to  eleven. 

"  You  see,"  said  Madame  to  Alvina,  "  they  are  very  funny, 
these  young  men,  particularly  Italians.  You  must  never  let 
them  think  you  have  caught  them.  Perhaps  he  will  not  let 
us  see  him  —  who  knows?  Perhaps  he  will  go  off  to  Italy 
all  the  same." 

They  sat  in  the  bumping  tram-car,  a  long  and  wearying 
journey.  And  then  they  tramped  the  dreary,  hideous  streets 
of  the  manufacturing  town.  At  the  corner  of  the  street  they 
waited  for  Geoffrey,  who  rode  up  muddily  on  his  bicycle. 

"Ask  Ciccio  to  come  out  to  us,  and  we  will  go  and  drink 
coffee  at  the  Geisha  Restaurant  —  or  tea  or  something,"  said 
Madame. 

Again  the  two  women  waited  wearily  at  the  street-end. 
At  last  Geoffrey  returned,  shaking  his  head. 

"  He  won't  come?  "  cried  Madame. 

"No." 

"  He  says  he  is  going  back  to  Italy?  " 

"To   London." 

"It  is  the  same.  You  can  never  trust  them.  Is  he  quite 
obstinate?  " 

Geoffrey  lifted  his  shoulders.  Madame  could  see  the  be- 
ginnings of  defection  in  him  too.  And  she  was  tired  and  dis- 
pirited. 

"We  shall  have  to  finish  the  Natcha-Kee-Tawara,  that  is 
all,"  she  said  fretfully. 

Geoffrey  watched  her  stolidly,  impassively. 


178  THE  LOST  GIRL 

"  Dost  thou  want  to  go  with  him?  "  she  asked  suddenly. 

Geoffrey  smiled  sheepishly,  and  his  colour  deepened.  But 
he  did  not  speak. 

"Go  then—"  she  said.  "Go  then!  Go  with  him!  But 
for  the  sake  of  my  honour,  finish  this  week  at  Woodhouse. 
Can  I  make  Miss  Houghton's  father  lose  these  two  nights? 
Where  is  your  shame?  Finish  this  week  and  then  go,  go  — 
But  finish  this  week.  Tell  Francesco  that.  I  have  finished 
with  him.  But  let  him  finish  this  engagement.  Don't  put 
me  to  shame,  don't  destroy  my  honour,  and  the  honour  of 
the  Natcha-Kee-Tawara.  Tell  him  that." 

Geoffrey  turned  again  into  the  house.  Madame,  in  her 
chic  little  black  hat  and  spotted  veil,  and  her  trim  black 
coat-and-skirt,  stood  there  at  the  street-corner  staring  be- 
fore her,  shivering  a  little  with  cold,  but  saying  no  word  of 
any  sort. 

Again  Geoffrey  appeared  out  of  the  doorway.  His  face 
was  impassive. 

"  He  says  he  doesn't  want,"  he  said. 

"  Ah !  "  she  cried  suddenly  in  French,  "  the  ungrateful, 
the  animal!  He  shall  suffer.  See  if  he  shall  not  suffer. 
The  low  canaille,  without  faith  or  feeling.  My  Max,  thou 
wert  right.  Ah,  such  canaille  should  be  beaten,  as  dogs  are 
beaten,  till  they  follow  at  heel.  Will  no  one  beat  him  for 
me,  no  one?  Yes.  Go  back.  Tell  him  before  he  leaves 
England  he  shall  feel  the  hand  of  Kishwegin,  and  it  shall  be 
heavier  than  the  Black  Hand.  Tell  him  that,  the  coward, 
that  causes  a  woman's  word  to  be  broken  against  her  will. 
Ah,  canaille,  canaille!  Neither  faith  nor  feeling,  neither 
faith  nor  feeling.  Trust  them  not,  dogs  of  the  south."  She 
took  a  few  agitated  steps  down  the  pavement.  Then  she 
raised  her  veil  to  wipe  away  her  tears  of  anger  and  bitter 
disappointment. 

"  Wait  a  bit,"  said  Alvina.     "  I'll  go."     She  was  touched. 

"  No.     Don't  you !  "  cried  Madame. 

"  Yes  I  will,"  she  said.  The  light  of  battle  was  in  her 
eyes.  "  You'll  come  with  me  to  the  door,"  she  said  to  Geof- 
frey. 

Geoffrey  started  obediently,  and  led  the  way  up  a  long 
narrow  stair,  covered  with  yellow-and-brown  oilcloth,  rather 
worn,  on  to  the  top  of  the  house. 

"  Ciccio,"  he  said,  outside  the  door. 


CICCIO  179 

"  Oui !  "  came  the  curly  voice  of  Ciccio. 

Geoffrey  opened  the  door.  Ciccio  was  sitting  on  a  narrow 
bed,  in  a  rather  poor  attic,  under  the  steep  slope  of  the 
roof. 

"  Don't  come  in,"  said  Alvina  to  Geoffrey,  looking  over 
her  shoulder  at  him  as  she  entered.  Then  she  closed  the 
door  behind  her,  and  stood  with  her  back  to  it,  facing  the 
Italian.  He  sat  loose  on  the  bed,  a  cigarette  between  his 
fingers,  dropping  ash  on  the  bare  boards  between  his  feet. 
He  looked  up  curiously  at  Alvina.  She  stood  watching  him 
with  wide,  bright  blue  eyes,  smiling  slightly,  and  saying 
nothing.  He  looked  up  at  her  steadily,  on  his  guard,  from 
under  his  long  black  lashes. 

"Won't  you  come?"  she  said,  smiling  and  looking  into 
his  eyes.  He  flicked  off  the  ash  of  his  cigarette  with  his 
little  finger.  She  wondered  why  he  wore  the  nail  of  his 
little  finger  so  long,  so  very  long.  Still  she  smiled  at  him, 
and  still  he  gave  no  sign. 

"  Do  come !  "  she  urged,  never  taking  her  eyes  from  him. 

He  made  not  the  slightest  movement,  but  sat  with  his 
hands  dropped  between  his  knees,  watching  her,  the  cigar- 
ette wavering  up  its  blue  thread  of  smoke. 

"Won't  you?"  she  said,  as  she  stood  with  her  back  to 
the  door.  "  Won't  you  come?  "  She  smiled  strangely  and 
vividly. 

Suddenly  she  took  a  pace  forward,  stooped,  watching  his 
face  as  if  timidly,  caught  his  brown  hand  in  her  own  and 
lifted  it  towards  herself.  His  hand  started,  dropped  the 
cigarette,  but  was  not  withdrawn. 

"  You  will  come,  won't  you?  "  she  said,  smiling  gently 
into  his  strange,  watchful  yellow  eyes,  that  looked  fixedly 
into  hers,  the  dark  pupil  opening  round  and  softening.  She 
smiled  into  his  softening  round  eyes,  the  eyes  of  some  animal 
which  stares  in  one  of  its  silent,  gentler  moments.  And 
suddenly  she  kissed  his  hand,  kissed  it  twice,  quickly,  on  the 
fingers  and  the  back.  He  wore  a  silver  ring.  Even  as  she 
kissed  his  fingers  with  her  lips,  the  silver  ring  seemed  to  her 
a  symbol  of  his  subjection,  inferiority.  She  drew  his  hand 
slightly.  And  he  rose  to  his  feet. 

She  turned  round  and  took  the  door-handle,  still  holding 
his  fingers  in  her  left  hand. 

"  You  are  coming,  aren't  you?  "  she  said,  looking  over  her 


180  THE  LOST  GIRL 

shoulder  into  his  eyes.  And  taking  consent  from  his  un- 
changing eyes,  she  let  go  his  hand  and  slightly  opened  the 
door.  He  turned  slowly,  and  taking  his  coat  from  a  nail, 
slung  it  over  his  shoulders  and  drew  it  on.  Then  he  picked 
up  his  hat,  and  put  his  foot  on  his  half-smoked  cigarette, 
which  lay  smoking  still.  He  followed  her  out  of  the  room, 
walking  with  his  head  rather  forward,  in  the  half  loutish, 
sensual-subjected  way  of  the  Italians. 

As  they  entered  the  street,  they  saw  the  trim,  French  fig- 
ure of  Madame  standing  alone,  as  if  abandoned.  Her  face 
was  very  white  under  her  spotted  veil,  her  eyes  very  black. 
She  watched  Ciccio  following  behind  Alvina  in  his  dark,  hang- 
dog fashion,  and  she  did  not  move  a  muscle  until  he  came  to 
a  standstill  in  front  of  her.  She  was  watching  his  face. 

"  Te  voila  done !  "  she  said,  without  expression.  "  Aliens 
boire  un  cafe,  he?  Let  us  go  and  drink  some  coffee."  She 
had  now  put  an  inflection  of  tenderness  into  her  voice.  But 
her  eyes  were  black  with  anger.  Ciccio  smiled  slowly,  the 
slow,  fine,  stupid  smile,  and  turned  to  walk  alongside. 

Madame  said  nothing  as  they  went.  Geoffrey  passed  on 
his  bicycle,  calling  out  that  he  would  go  straight  to  Wood- 
house. 

When  the  three  sat  with  their  cups  of  coffee,  Madame 
pushed  up  her  veil  just  above  her  eyes,  so  that  it  was  a  black 
band  above  her  brows.  Her  face  was  pale  and  full  like  a 
child's,  but  almost  stonily  expressionless,  her  eyes  were  black 
and  inscrutable.  She  watched  both  Ciccio  and  Alvina  with 
her  black,  inscrutable  looks. 

"Would  you  like  also  biscuits  with  your  coffee,  the  two 
of  you?  "  she  said,  with  an  amiable  intonation  which  her 
strange  black  looks  belied. 

"Yes,"  said  Alvina.  She  was  a  little  flushed,  as  if  de- 
fiant, while  Ciccio  sat  sheepishly,  turning  aside  his  ducked 
head,  the  slow,  stupid,  yet  fine  smile  on  his  lips. 

"And  no  more  trouble  with  Max,  hein? — you  Ciccio?" 
said  Madame,  still  with  the  amiable  intonation  and  the  same 
black,  watching  eyes.  "No  more  of  these  stupid  scenes, 
hein?  What?  Do  you  answer  me." 

"  No  more  from  me,"  he  said,  looking  up  at  her  with  a 
narrow,  cat-like  look  in  his  derisive  eyes. 

"Ho?  No?  No  more?  Good  then!  It  is  good!  We 
are  glad,  aren't  we,  Miss  Houghton,  that  Ciccio  has  come  back 


CICCIO  181 

and  there  are  to  be  no  more  rows? — hein? — aren't  we?" 

"I'm  awfully  glad,"  said  Alvina. 

"Awfully  glad  —  yes  —  awfully  glad!  You  hear,  you 
Ciccio.  And  you  remember  another  time.  What?  Don't 
you?  He?" 

He  looked  up  at  her,  the  slow,  derisive  smile  curling  his 
lips. 

'*  Sure,"  he  said  slowly,   with  subtle  intonation. 

"Yes.  Good!  Well  then!  Well  then!  We  are  all 
friends.  We  are  all  friends,  aren't  we,  all  the  Natcha-Kee- 
Tawaras?  He?  What  you  think?  What  you  say?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Ciccio,  again  looking  up  at  her  with  his  yel- 
low, glinting  eyes. 

"All  right!  All  right  then!  It  is  all  right  —  forgot- 
ten— "  Madame  sounded  quite  frank  and  restored.  But 
the  sullen  watchfulness  in  her  eyes,  and  the  narrowed  look 
in  Ciccio's,  as  he  glanced  at  her,  showed  another  state  behind 
the  obviousness  of  the  words.  "  And  Miss  Houghton  is  one 
of  us!  Yes?  She  has  united  us  once  more,  and  so  she  has 
become  one  of  us."  Madame  smiled  strangely  from  her 
blank,  round  white  face. 

"  I  should  love  to  be  one  of  the  Natcha-Kee-Tawaras," 
said  Alvina. 

"Yes  —  well  —  why  not?  Why  not  become  one?  Why 
not?  What  you  say,  Ciccio?  You  can  play  the  piano,  per- 
haps do  other  things.  Perhaps  better  than  Kishwegin.  What 
you  say,  Ciccio,  should  she  not  join  us?  Is  she  not  one 
of  us?  " 

He  smiled  and  showed  his  teeth  but  did  not  answer. 

"  Well,  what  is  it?     Say  then?     Shall  she  not?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Ciccio,  unwilling  to  commit  himself. 

"Yes,  so  I  say!  So  I  say.  Quite  a  good  idea!  We  will 
think  of  it,  and  speak  perhaps  to  your  father,  and  you  shall 
come!  Yes." 

So  the  two  women  returned  to  Woodhouse  by  the  tram- 
car,  while  Ciccio  rode  home  on  his  bicycle.  It  was  surprising 
how  little  Madame  and  Alvina  found  to  say  to  one  another. 

Madame  effected  the  reunion  of  her  troupe,  and  all  seemed 
pretty  much  as  before.  She  had  decided  to  dance  the  next 
night,  the  Saturday  night.  On  Sunday  the  party  would  leave 
for  Warsall,  about  thirty  miles  away,  to  fulfil  their  next 
engagement. 


182  THE  LOST  GIRL 

That  evening  Ciccio,  whenever  he  had  a  moment  to  spare, 
watched  Alvina.  She  knew  it.  But  she  could  not  make  out 
what  his  watching  meant.  In  the  same  way  he  might  have 
watched  a  serpent,  had  he  found  one  gliding  in  the  theatre. 
He  looked  at  her  sideways,  furtively,  but  persistently.  And 
yet  he  did  not  want  to  meet  her  glance.  He  avoided  her, 
and  watched  her.  As  she  saw  him  standing,  in  his  negli- 
gent, muscular,  slouching  fashion,  with  his  head  dropped 
forward,  and  his  eyes  sideways,  sometimes  she  disliked  him. 
But  there  was  a  sort  of  finesse  about  his  face.  His  skin 
was  delicately  tawny,  and  slightly  lustrous.  The  eyes  were 
set  in  so  dark,  that  one  expected  them  to  be  black  and  flash- 
ing. And  then  one  met  the  yellow  pupils,  sulphureous  and 
remote.  It  was  like  meeting  a  lion.  His  long,  fine  nose, 
his  rather  long,  rounded  chin  and  curling  lips  seemed  re- 
fined through  ages  of  forgotten  culture.  He  was  waiting: 
silent  there,  with  something  muscular  and  remote  about  his 
very  droop,  he  was  waiting.  What  for?  Alvina  could  not 
guess.  She  wanted  to  meet  his  eye,  to  have  an  open  un- 
derstanding with  him.  But  he  would  not.  When  she  went 
up  to  talk  to  him,  he  answered  in  his  stupid  fashion,  with  a 
smile  of  the  mouth  and  no  change  of  the  eyes,  saying  nothing 
at  all.  Obstinately  he  held  away  from  her.  When  he  was 
in  his  war-paint,  for  one  moment  she  hated  his  muscular, 
handsome,  downward-drooping  torso:  so  stupid  and  full. 
The  fine  sharp  uprightness  of  Max  seemed  much  finer,  clearer, 
more  manly.  Ciccio's  velvety,  suave  heaviness,  the  very 
heave  of  his  muscles,  so  full  and  softly  powerful,  sickened 
her. 

She  flashed  away  angrily  on  her  piano.  Madame,  who 
was  dancing  Kishwegin  on  the  last  evening,  cast  sharp  glances 
at  her.  Alvina  had  avoided  Madame  as  Ciccio  had  avoided 
Alvina  —  elusive  and  yet  conscious,  a  distance,  and  yet  a 
connection. 

Madame  danced  beautifully.  No  denying  it,  she  was  an 
artist.  She  became  something  quite  different:  fresh,  vir- 
ginal, pristine,  a  magic  creature  flickering  there.  She  was 
infinitely  delicate  and  attractive.  Her  braves  became  glam- 
orous and  heroic  at  once,  and  magically  she  cast  her  spell 
over  them.  It  was  all  very  well  for  Alvina  to  bang  the  piano 
crossly.  She  could  not  put  out  the  glow  which  surrounded 
Kishwegin  and  her  troupe.  Ciccio  was  handsome  now:  with- 


CICCIO  183 

out  war-paint,  and  roused,  fearless  and  at  the  same  time  sug- 
gestive, a  dark,  mysterious  glamour  on  his  face,  passionate 
and  remote.  A  stranger  —  and  so  beautiful.  Alvina  flashed 
at  the  piano,  almost  in  tears.  She  hated  his  beauty.  It  shut 
her  apart.  She  had  nothing  to  do  with  it. 

Madame,  with  her  long  dark  hair  hanging  in  finely-brushed 
tresses,  her  cheek  burning  under  its  dusky  stain,  was  another 
creature.  How  soft  she  was  on  her  feet.  How  humble  and 
remote  she  seemed,  as  across  a  chasm  from  the  men.  How 
submissive  she  was,  with  an  eternity  of  inaccessible  submis- 
sion. Her  hovering  dance  round  the  dead  bear  was  exquisite: 
her  dark,  secretive  curiosity,  her  admiration  of  the  massive, 
male  strength  of  the  creature,  her  quivers  of  triumph  over  the 
dead  beast,  her  cruel  exultation,  and  her  fear  that  he  was  not 
really  dead.  It  was  a  lovely  sight,  suggesting  the  world's 
morning,  before  Eve  had  bitten  any  white-fleshed  apple, 
whilst  she  was  still  dusky,  dark-eyed,  and  still.  And  then 
her  stealthy  sympathy  with  the  white  prisoner!  Now  indeed 
she  was  the  dusky  Eve  tempted  into  knowledge.  Her  fascina- 
tion was  ruthless.  She  kneeled  by  the  dead  brave,  her  hus- 
band, as  she  had  knelt  by  the  bear:  in  fear  and  admiration 
and  doubt  and  exultation.  She  gave  him  the  least  little 
push  with  her  foot.  Dead  meat  like  the  bear!  And  a  flash 
of  delight  went  over  her,  that  changed  into  a  sob  of  mortal 
anguish.  And  then,  flickering,  wicked,  doubtful,  she  watched 
Ciccio  wrestling  with  the  bear. 

She  was  the  clue  to  all  the  action,  was  Kishwegin.  And 
her  dark  braves  seemed  to  become  darker,  more  secret, 
malevolent,  burning  with  a  cruel  fire,  and  at  the  same  time 
wistful,  knowing  their  end.  Ciccio  laughed  in  a  strange 
way,  as  he  wrestled  with  the  bear,  as  he  had  never  laughed 
on  the  previous  evenings.  The  sound  went  out  into  the 
audience,  a  soft,  malevolent,  derisive  sound.  And  when  the 
bear  was  supposed  to  have  crushed  him,  and  he  was  to  have 
fallen,  he  reeled  out  of  the  bear's  arms  and  said  to  Madame, 
in  his  derisive  voice: 

"  Vivo  sempre,  Madame."     And  then  he  fell. 

Madame  stopped  as  if  shot,  hearing  his  words :  "  I  am 
still  alive,  Madame."  She  remained  suspended  motionless, 
suddenly  wilted.  Then  all  at  once  her  hand  went  to  her 
mouth  with  a  scream: 

"The  Bear!" 


184  THE  LOST  GIRL 

So  the  scene  concluded  itself.  But  instead  of  the  tender, 
half-wistful  triumph  of  Kishwegin,  a  triumph  electric  as  it 
should  have  been  when  she  took  the  white  man's  hand  and 
kissed  it,  there  was  a  doubt,  a  hesitancy,  a  nullity,  and  Max 
did  not  quite  know  what  to  do. 

After  the  performance,  neither  Madame  nor  Max  dared 
say  anything  to  Ciccio  about  his  innovation  into  the  play. 
Louis  felt  he  had  to  speak  —  it  was  left  to  him. 

"  I  say,  Cic' — "  he  said,  "  why  did  you  change  the  scene? 
It  might  have  spoiled  everything  if  Madame  wasn't  such  a 
genius.  Why  did  you  say  that?  " 

"Why,"  said  Ciccio,  answering  Louis'  French  in  Italian, 
"I  am  tired  of  being  dead,  you  see." 

Madame  and  Max  heard  in  silence. 

When  Alvina  had  played  God  Save  the  King  she  went 
round  behind  the  stage.  But  Ciccio  and  Geoffrey  had  already 
packed  up  the  property,  and  left.  Madame  was  talking  to 
James  Houghton.  Louis  and  Max  were  busy  together.  Mr. 
May  came  to  Alvina. 

"Well,"  he  said.  "That  closes  another  week.  I  think 
we've  done  very  well,  in  face  of  difficulties,  don't  you?  " 

"Wonderfully,"  she  said. 

But  poor  Mr.  May  spoke  and  looked  pathetically.  He 
seemed  to  feel  forlorn.  Alvina  was  not  attending  to  him. 
Her  eye  was  roving.  She  took  no  notice  of  him. 

Madame  came  up. 

"Well,  Miss  Houghton,"  she  said,  "time  to  say  good-bye, 
I  suppose." 

"  How  do  you  feel  after  dancing?  "  asked  Alvina. 

"  Well  —  not  so  strong  as  usual  —  but  not  so  bad,  you 
know.  I  shall  be  all  right  —  thanks  to  you.  I  think  your 
father  is  more  ill  than  I.  To  me  he  looks  very  ill." 

"Father  wears  himself  away,"  said  Alvina. 

"  Yes,  and  when  we  are  no  longer  young,  there  is  not  so 
much  to  wear.  Well,  I  must  thank  you  once  more — " 

"What  time  do  you  leave  in  the  morning?  " 

"By  the  train  at  half-past  ten.  If  it  doesn't  rain,  the 
young  men  will  cycle  —  perhaps  all  of  them.  Then  they  will 
go  when  they  like — " 

"  I  will  come  round  to  say  good-bye  — "  said  Alvina. 

"Oh  no  —  don't  disturb  yourself — " 


CICCIO  185 

"Yes,  I  want  to  take  home  the  things  —  the  kettle  for  the 
bronchitis,  and  those  things — " 

"Oh  thank  you  very  much  —  but  don't  trouble  yourself. 
I  will  send  Ciccio  with  them  —  or  one  of  the  others  — " 

"I  should  like  to  say  good-bye  to  you  all,"  persisted 
Alvina. 

Madame  glanced  round  at  Max  and  Louis. 

"Are  we  not  all  here?  No.  The  two  have  gone.  No! 
Well!  Well  what  time  will  you  come?" 

"About  nine?" 

"Very  well,  and  I  leave  at  ten.  Very  well.  Then  au 
revoir  till  the  morning.  Good-night." 

"  Good-night,"  said  Alvina.     Her  colour  was  rather  flushed. 

She  walked  up  with  Mr.  May,  and  hardly  noticed  he  was 
there.  After  supper,  when  James  Houghton  had  gone  up  to 
count  his  pennies,  Alvina  said  to  Miss  Pinnegar: 

"Don't  you  think  father  looks  rather  seedy,  Miss  Pinne- 
gar?  " 

"  I've  been  thinking  so  a  long  time,"  said  Miss  Pinnegar 
tartly. 

"What  do  you  think  he  ought  to  do?  " 

"  He's  killing  himself  down  there,  in  all  weathers  and 
freezing  in  that  box-office,  and  then  the  bad  atmosphere.  He's 
killing  himself,  that's  all." 

"What  can  we  do?" 

"Nothing  so  long  as  there's  that  place  down  there.  Noth- 
ing at  all." 

Alvina  thought  so  too.     So  she  went  to  bed. 

She  was  up  in  time,  and  watching  the  clock.  It  was  a 
grey  morning,  but  not  raining.  At  five  minutes  to  nine,  she 
hurried  off  to  Mrs.  Rollings.  In  the  back  yard  the  bicycles 
were  out,  glittering  and  muddy  according  to  their  owners. 
Ciccio  was  crouching  mending  a  tire,  crouching  balanced  on 
his  toes,  near  the  earth.  He  turned  like  a  quick-eared  animal 
glancing  up  as  she  approached,  but  did  not  rise. 

"Are  you  getting  ready  to  go?  "  she  said,  looking  down  at 
him.  He  screwed  his  head  round  to  her  unwillingly,  upside 
down,  his  chin  tilted  up  at  her.  She  did  not  know  him  thus 
inverted.  Her  eyes  rested  on  his  face,  puzzled.  His  chin 
seemed  so  large,  aggressive.  He  was  a  little  bit  repellent  and 
brutal,  inverted.  Yet  she  continued: 


186  THE  LOST  GIRL 

"Would  you  help  me  to  carry  back  the  things  we  brought 
for  Madame?  " 

He  rose  to  his  feet,  but  did  not  look  at  her.  He  was  wearing 
broken  cycling  shoes.  He  stood  looking  at  his  bicycle  tube. 

"Not  just  yet,"  she  said.  "I  want  to  say  good-bye  to 
Madame.  Will  you  come  in  half  an  hour?  " 

"  Yes,  I  will  come,"  he  said,  still  watching  his  bicycle  tube, 
which  sprawled  nakedly  on  the  floor.  The  forward  drop  of 
his  head  was  curiously  beautiful  to  her,  the  straight,  powerful 
nape  of  the  neck,  the  delicate  shape  of  the  back  of  the  head, 
the  black  hair.  The  way  the  neck  sprang  from  the  strong, 
loose  shoulders  was  beautiful.  There  was  something  mindless 
but  intent  about  the  forward  reach  of  his  head.  His  face 
seemed  colourless,  neutral-tinted  and  expressionless. 

She  went  indoors.  The  young  men  were  moving  about 
making  preparations. 

"  Come  upstairs,  Miss  Houghton !  "  called  Madame's  voice 
from  above.  Alvina  mounted,  to  find  Madame  packing. 

"  It  is  an  uneasy  moment,  when  we  are  busy  to  move,"  said 
Madame,  looking  up  at  Alvina  as  if  she  were  a  stranger. 

"  I'm  afraid  I'm  in  the  way.     But  I  won't  stay  a  minute." 

"  Oh,  it  is  all  right.  Here  are  the  things  you  brought  — " 
Madame  indicated  a  little  pile  — "  and  thank  you  very  much, 
very  much.  I  feel  you  saved  my  life.  And  now  let  me  give 
you  one  little  token  of  my  gratitude.  It  is  not  much,  because 
we  are  not  millionaires  in  the  Natcha-Kee-Tawara.  Just  a 
little  remembrance  of  our  troublesome  visit  to  Woodhouse." 

She  presented  Alvina  with  a  pair  of  exquisite  bead  mocca- 
sins, woven  in  a  weird,  lovely  pattern,  with  soft  deerskin  soles 
and  sides. 

"They  belong  to  Kishwegin,  so  it  is  Kishwegin  who  gives 
them  to  you,  because  she  is  grateful  to  you  for  saving  her 
life,  or  at  least  from  a  long  illness." 

"  Oh  —  but  I  don't  want  to  take  them  — "  said  Alvina. 

"You  don't  like  them?     Why?  " 

"I  think  they're  lovely,  lovely!  But  I  don't  want  to  take 
them  from  you — " 

"If  I  give  them,  you  do  not  take  them  from  me.  You 
receive  them.  He?  "  And  Madame  pressed  back  the  slip- 
pers, opening  her  plump  jewelled  hands  in  a  gesture  of 
finality. 


CICCIO  187 

"  But  I  don't  like  to  take  these,"  said  Alvina.  "  I  feel  they 
belong  to  Natcha-Kee-Tawara.  And  I  don't  want  to  rob 
Natcha-Kee-Tawara,  do  I?  Do  take  them  back." 

"  No,  I  have  given  them.  You  cannot  rob  Natcha-Kee- 
Tawara  in  taking  a  pair  of  shoes  —  impossible!  " 

"  And  I'm  sure  they  are  much  too  small  for  me." 

"  Ha!  "  exclaimed  Madame.     "  It  is  that!     Try." 

"  I  know  they  are,"  said  Alvina,  laughing  confusedly. 

She  sat  lown  and  took  off  her  own  shoe.  The  moccasin 
was  a  little  too  short  —  just  a  little.  But  it  was  charming 
on  the  foot,  charming. 

"Yes,"  said  Madame.  "It  is  too  short.  Very  well.  I 
must  find  you  something  else." 

"  Please  don't,"  said  Alvina.  "  Please  don't  find  me  any- 
thing. I  don't  want  anything.  Please!  " 

"  What?  "  said  Madame,  eyeing  her  closely.  "  You  don't 
want?  Why?  You  don't  want  anything  from  Natcha-Kee- 
Tawara,  or  from  Kishwegin?  He?  From  which?  " 

"  Don't  give  me  anything,  please,"  said  Alvina. 

"All  right!  All  right  then.  I  won't.  I  won't  give  you 
anything.  I  can't  give  you  anything  you  want  from  Natcha- 
Kee-Tawara." 

And  Madame  busied  herself  again  with  the  packing. 

"  I'm  awfully  sorry  you  are  going,"  said  Alvina. 

"  Sorry?  Why?  Yes,  so  am  I  sorry  we  shan't  see  you  any 
more.  Yes,  so  I  am.  But  perhaps  we  shall  see  you  another 
time  —  he?  I  shall  send  you  a  post-card.  Perhaps  I  shall 
send  one  of  the  young  men  on  his  bicycle,  to  bring  you  some- 
thing which  I  shall  buy  for  you.  Yes?  Shall  I?  " 

"Oh!  I  should  be  awfully  glad  — but  don't  buy—" 
Alvina  checked  herself  in  time.  "  Don't  buy  anything.  Send 
me  a  little  thing  from  Natcha-Kee-Tawara.  I  love  the  slip- 
pers — 

"  But  they  are  too  small,"  said  Madame,  who  had  been 
watching  her  with  black  eyes  that  read  every  motive.  Madame 
too  had  her  avaricious  side,  and  was  glad  to  get  back  the 
slippers.  "  Very  well  —  very  well,  I  will  do  that.  I  will 
send  you  some  small  thing  from  Natcha-Kee-Tawara,  and  one 
of  the  young  men  shall  bring  it.  Perhaps  Ciccio?  He?  " 

"  Thank  you  so  much,"  said  Alvina,  holding  out  her  hand. 
"  Good-bye.  I'm  so  sorry  you're  going." 


188  THE  LOST  GIRL 

"Well  —  well!  We  are  not  going  so  very  far.  Not  so 
very  far.  Perhaps  we  shall  see  each  other  another  day.  It 
may  be.  Good-bye!  " 

Madame  took  Alvina's  hand,  and  smiled  at  her  winsomely 
all  at  once,  kindly,  from  her  inscrutable  black  eyes.  A  sud- 
den unusual  kindness.  Alvina  flushed  with  surprise  and  a 
desire  to  cry. 

"Yes.  I  am  sorry  you  are  not  with  Natcha-Kee-Tawara. 
But  we  shall  see.  Good-bye.  I  shall  do  my  packing." 

Alvina  carried  down  the  things  she  had  to  remove.  Then 
she  went  to  say  good-bye  to  the  young  men,  who  were  in  various 
stages  of  their  toilet.  Max  alone  was  quite  presentable. 

Ciccio  was  just  putting  on  the  outer  cover  of  his  front  tire. 
She  watched  his  brown  thumbs  press  it  into  place.  He  was 
quick  and  sure,  much  more  capable,  and  even  masterful,  than 
you  would  have  supposed,  seeing  his  tawny  Mediterranean 
hands.  He  spun  the  wheel  round,  patting  it  lightly. 

"Is  it  finished?" 

"Yes,  I  think."  He  reached  his  pump  and  blew  up  the 
tire.  She  watched  his  softly-applied  force.  What  physical, 
muscular  force  there  was  in  him.  Then  he  swung  round  the 
bicycle,  and  stood  it  again  on  its  wheels.  After  which  he 
quickly  folded  his  tools. 

"Will  you  come  now?  "  she  said. 

He  turned,  rubbing  his  hands  together,  and  drying  them 
on  an  old  cloth.  He  went  into  the  house,  pulled  on  his  coat 
and  his  cap,  and  picked  up  the  things  from  the  table. 

"Where  are  you  going?  "  Max  asked. 

Ciccio  jerked  his  head  towards  Alvina. 

"  Oh,  allow  me  to  carry  them,  Miss  Houghton.  He  is  not 
fit  -  "  said  Max. 

True,  Ciccio  had  no  collar  on,  and  his  shoes  were  burst. 

"I  don't  mind,"  said  Alvina  hastily.  "He  knows  where 
they  go.  He  brought  them  before." 

"  But  I  will  carry  them.  I  am  dressed.  Allow  me  — "  and 
he  began  to  take  the  things.  "You  get  dressed,  Ciccio." 

Ciccio  looked  at  Alvina. 

"  Do  you  want?  "  he  said,  as  if  waiting  for  orders. 

"  Do  let  Ciccio  take  them,"  said  Alvina  to  Max.  "  Thank 
you  ever  so  much.  But  let  him  take  them." 

So  Alvina  marched  off  through  the  Sunday  morning  streets, 
with  the  Italian,  who  was  down  at  heel  and  encumbered  with 


CICCIO  189 

an  armful  of  sick-room  apparatus.     She  did  not  know  what 
to  say,  and  he  said  nothing. 

"We  will  go  in  this  way,"  she  said,  suddenly  opening  the 
hall  door.  She  had  unlocked  it  before  she  went  out,  for  that 
entrance  was  hardly  ever  used.  So  she  showed  the  Italian 
into  the  sombre  drawing-room,  with  its  high  black  bookshelves 
with  rows  and  rows  of  calf-bound  volumes,  its  old  red  and 
flowered  carpet,  its  grand  piano  littered  with  music.  Ciccio 
put  down  the  things  as  she  directed,  and  stood  with  his  cap 
in  his  hands,  looking  aside. 

"  Thank  you  so  much,"  she  said,  lingering. 

He  curled  his  lips  in  a  faint  deprecatory  smile. 

"  Nothing,"  he  murmured. 

His  eye  had  wandered  uncomfortably  up  to  a  portrait  on 
the  wall. 

"  That  was  my  mother,"  said  Alvina. 

He  glanced  down  at  her,  but  did  not  answer. 

"  I  am  so  sorry  you're  going  away,"  she  said  nervously. 
She  stood  looking  up  at  him  with  wide  blue  eyes. 

The  faint  smile  grew  on  the  lower  part  of  his  face,  which  he 
kept  averted.  Then  he  looked  at  her. 

"  We  have  to  move,"  he  said,  with  his  eyes  watching  her 
reservedly,  his  mouth  twisting  with  a  half -bashful  smile. 

"Do  you  like  continually  going  away?  "  she  said,  her  wide 
blue  eyes  fixed  on  his  face. 

He  nodded  slightly. 

"  We  have  to  do  it.     I  like  it." 

What  he  said  meant  nothing  to  him.  He  now  watched  her 
fixedly,  with  a  slightly  mocking  look,  and  a  reserve  he  would 
not  relinquish. 

"  Do  you  think  I  shall  ever  see  you  again?  "  she  said. 

"  Should  you  like — ?  "  he  answered,  with  a  sly  smile  and  a 
faint  shrug.  • 

"  I  should  like  awfully  — "  a  flush  grew  on  her  cheek. 
She  heard  Miss  Pinnegar's  scarcely  audible  step  approach- 
ing. 

He  nodded  at  her  slightly,  watching  her  fixedly,  turning 
up  the  corners  of  his  eyes  slyly,  his  nose  seeming  slyly  to 
sharpen. 

"All  right.     Next  week,  eh?     In  the  morning?  " 

"  Do !  "  cried  Alvina,  as  Miss  Pinnegar  came  through  the 
door.  He  glanced  quickly  over  his  shoulder. 


190  THE  LOST  GIRL 


"  Oh  !  "  cried  Miss  Pinnegar.     "  I  couldn't  imagine  who  it 

fellow  sharpl 
"Couldn't  you?"  said  Alvina.     "We  brought  back  these 


was."     She  eyed  the  young  fellow  sharply. 


things." 

"  Oh  yes.  Well  —  you'd  better  come  into  the  other  room, 
to  the  fire,"  said  Miss  Pinnegar. 

"  I  shall  go  along.  Good-bye  !  "  said  Ciccio,  and  with  a 
slight  bow  to  Alvina,  and  a  still  slighter  to  Miss  Pinnegar,  he 
was  out  of  the  room  and  out  of  the  front  door,  as  if  turning 
tail. 

"  I  suppose  they're  going  this  morning,"  said  Miss  Pinnegar. 


CHAPTER  IX 

ALVINA  BECOMES  ALLAYE 

ALVINA  wept  when  the  Natchas  had  gone.  She  loved  them 
so  much,  she  wanted  to  be  with  them.  Even  Ciccio  she  re- 
garded as  only  one  of  the  Natchas.  She  looked  forward  to 
his  coming  as  to  a  visit  from  the  troupe. 

How  dull  the  theatre  was  without  them!  She  was  tired  of 
the  Endeavour.  She  wished  it  did  not  exist.  The  rehearsal 
on  the  Monday  morning  bored  her  terribly.  Her  father 
was  nervous  and  irritable.  The  previous  week  had  tried  him 
sorely.  He  had  worked  himself  into  a  state  of  nervous  appre- 
hension such  as  nothing  would  have  justified,  unless  perhaps, 
if  the  wooden  walls  of  the  Endeavour  had  burnt  to  the  ground, 
with  James  inside  victimized  like  another  Samson.  He  had 
developed  a  nervous  horror  of  all  artistes.  He  did  not  feel 
safe  for  one  single  moment  whilst  he  depended  on  a  single 
one  of  them. 

"We  shall  have  to  convert  into  all  pictures,"  he  said  in  a 
nervous  fever  to  Mr.  May.  "  Don't  make  any  more  engage- 
ments after  the  end  of  next  month." 

"Really!"  said  Mr.  May.  "Really!  Have  you  quite 
decided?  " 

"Yes  quite!  Yes  quite!  "  James  fluttered.  "I  have  writ- 
ten about  a  new  machine,  and  the  supply  of  films  from  Chanti- 
clers." 

"  Really!  "  said  Mr.  May.  "  Oh  well  then,  in  that  case—" 
But  he  was  filled  with  dismay  and  chagrin. 

"  Of  cauce,"  he  said  later  to  Alvina,  "  I  can't  possibly  stop 
on  if  we  are  nothing  but  a  picture  show!  "  And  he  arched 
his  blanched  and  dismal  eyelids  with  ghastly  finality. 

"Why?"  cried  Alvina. 

"  Oh  —  why !  "  He  was  rather  ironic.  "  Well,  it's  not  my 
line  at  all.  I'm  not  a  film-operator  I  "  And  he  put  his  head 
on  one  side  with  a  grimace  of  contempt  and  superiority. 

"  But  you  are,  as  well,"  said  Alvina. 

191 


192  THE  LOST  GIRL 

"Yes,  as  well.  But  not  only  I  You  may  wash  the  dishes 
in  the  scullery.  But  you're  not  only  the  char,  are  you?  " 

"  But  is  it  the  same?  "  cried  Alvina. 

"  Of  cauce!  "  cried  Mr.  May.     "  Of  cauce  it's  the  same." 

Alvina  laughed,  a  little  heartlessly,  into  his  pallid,  stricken 
eyes. 

"But  what  will  you  do?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  shall  have  to  look  for  something  else,"  said  the  injured 
but  dauntless  little  man.  "  There's  nothing  else,  is  there?  " 

"  Wouldn't  you  stay  on?  "  she  asked. 

"I  wouldn't  think  of  it.  I  wouldn't  think  of  it."  He 
turtled  like  an  injured  pigeon. 

"Well,"  she  said,  looking  laconically  into  his  face:  "It's 
between  you  and  father  — 

"Of  caucel"  he  said.  "Naturally!  Where  else—!" 
But  his  tone  was  a  little  spiteful,  as  if  he  had  rested  his  last 
hopes  on  Alvina. 

Alvina  went  away.  She  mentioned  the  coming  change  to 
Miss  Pinnegar. 

"  Well,"  said  Miss  Pinnegar,  judicious  but  aloof,  "  it's  a 
move  in  the  right  direction.  But  I  doubt  if  it'll  do  any 
good." 

"  Do  you?  "  said  Alvina.     "  Why?  " 

"  I  don't  believe  in  the  place,  and  I  never  did,"  declared 
Miss  Pinnegar.  "  I  don't  believe  any  good  will  come  of  it." 

"But  why?  "  persisted  Alvina.  "What  makes  you  feel  so 
sure  about  it?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  But  that's  how  I  feel.  And  I  have  from 
the  first.  It  was  wrong  from  the  first.  It  was  wrong  to 
begin  it." 

"  But  why?  "  insisted  Alvina,  laughing. 

"  Your  father  had  no  business  to  be  led  into  it.  He'd  no 
business  to  touch  this  show  business.  It  isn't  like  him.  It 
doesn't  belong  to  him.  He's  gone  against  his  own  nature  and 
his  own  life." 

"  Oh  but,"  said  Alvina,  "  father  was  a  showman  even  in 
the  shop.  He  always  was.  Mother  said  he  was  like  a  show- 
man in  a  booth." 

Miss  Pinnegar  was  taken  aback. 

"Well!  "  she  said  sharply.  "If  that's  what  you've  seen  in 
him !  " —  there  was  a  pause.  "  And  in  that  case,"  she  con- 
tinued tartly,  "  I  think  some  of  the  showman  has  come  out  in 


ALVINA  BECOMES  ALLAYE  193 

his  daughter !  or  show-woman !  —  which  doesn't  improve  it, 
to  my  idea." 

"Why  is  it  any  worse?  "  said  Alvina.  "I  enjoy  it  —  and 
so  does  father." 

"No,"  cried  Miss  Pinnegar.  "There  you're  wrong! 
There  you  make  a  mistake.  It's  all  against  his  better  nature." 

"Really!  "  said  Alvina,  in  surprise.  "What  a  new  idea! 
But  which  is  father's  better  nature?  " 

"  You  may  not  know  it,"  said  Miss  Pinnegar  coldly,  "  and 
if  so,  I  can  never  tell  you.  But  that  doesn't  alter  it."  She 
lapsed  into  dead  silence  for  a  moment.  Then  suddenly  she 
broke  out,  vicious  and  cold:  "He'll  go  on  till  he's  killed 
himself,  and  then  he'll  know." 

The  little  adverb  then  came  whistling  across  the  space  like 
a  bullet.  It  made  Alvina  pause.  Was  her  father  going  to 
die?  She  reflected.  Well,  all  men  must  die. 

She  forgot  the  question  in  others  that  occupied  her.  First, 
could  she  bear  it,  when  the  Endeavour  was  turned  into  another 
cheap  and  nasty  film-shop?  The  strange  figures  of  the 
artistes  passing  under  her  observation  had  really  entertained 
her,  week  by  week.  Some  weeks  they  had  bored  her,  some 
weeks  she  had  detested  them,  but  there  was  always  a  chance  in 
the  coming  week.  Think  of  the  Natcha-Kee-Tawaras ! 

She  thought  too  much  of  the  Natcha-Kee-Tawaras.  She 
knew  it.  And  she  tried  to  force  her  mind  to  the  contempla- 
tion of  the  new  state  of  things,  when  she  banged  at  the  piano 
to  a  set  of  dithering  and  boring  pictures.  There  would  be  her 
father,  herself,  and  Mr.  May  —  or  a  new  operator,  a  new  man- 
ager. The  new  manager !  —  she  thought  of  him  for  a  moment 
—  and  thought  of  the  mechanical  factory-faced  persons  who 
managed  Wright's  and  the  Woodhouse  Empire. 

But  her  mind  fell  away  from  this  barren  study.  She  was 
obsessed  by  the  Natcha-Kee-Tawaras.  They  seemed  to  have 
fascinated  her.  Which  of  them  it  was,  or  what  it  was  that 
had  cast  the  spell  over  her,  she  did  not  know.  But  she  was 
as  if  hypnotized.  She  longed  to  be  with  them.  Her  soul 
gravitated  towards  them  all  the  time. 

Monday  passed,  and  Ciccio  did  not  come:  Tuesday  passed: 
and  Wednesday.  In  her  soul  she  was  sceptical  of  their  keep- 
ing their  promise  —  either  Madame  or  Ciccio.  Why  should 
they  keep  their  promise?  She  knew  what  these  nomadic 
artistes  were.  And  her  soul  was  stubborn  within  her. 


194  THE  LOST  GIRL 

On  Wednesday  night  there  was  another  sensation  at  the 
Endeavour.  Mr.  May  found  James  Houghton  fainting  in  the 
box-office  after  the  performance  had  begun.  What  to  do? 
He  could  not  interrupt  Alvina,  nor  the  performance.  He  sent 
the  chocolate-and-orange  boy  across  to  the  Pear  Tree  for 
brandy. 

James  revived.  "  I'm  all  right,"  he  said,  in  a  brittle 
fashion.  "  I'm  all  right.  Don't  bother."  So  he  sat  with  his 
head  on  his  hand  in  the  box-office,  and  Mr.  May  had  to  leave 
him  to  operate  the  film. 

When  the  interval  arrived,  Mr.  May  hurried  to  the  box-office, 
a  narrow  hole  that  James  could  just  sit  in,  and  there  he 
found  the  invalid  in  the  same  posture,  semi-conscious.  He 
gave  him  more  brandy. 

"  I'm  all  right,  I  tell  you,"  said  James,  his  eyes  flaring. 
"  Leave  me  alone."  But  he  looked  anything  but  all  right. 

Mr.  May  hurried  for  Alvina.  When  the  daughter  entered 
the  ticket  place,  her  father  was  again  in  a  state  of  torpor. 

"  Father,"  she  said,  shaking  his  shoulder  gently.  "  What's 
the  matter." 

He  murmured  something,  but  was  incoherent.  She  looked 
at  his  face.  It  was  grey  and  blank. 

"  We  shall  have  to  get  him  home,"  she  said.  "  We  shall 
have  to  get  a  cab." 

"  Give  him  a  little  brandy,"  said  Mr.  May. 

The  boy  was  sent  for  the  cab,  James  swallowed  a  spoonful 
of  brandy.  He  came  to  himself  irritably. 

"What?  What,"  he  said.  "  I  won't  have  all  this  fuss.  Go 
on  with  the  performance,  there's  no  need  to  bother  about  me." 
His  eye  was  wild. 

"  You  must  go  home,  father,"  said  Alvina. 

"Leave  me  alone!  Will  you  leave  me  alone!  Hectored 
by  women  all  my  life  —  hectored  by  women  —  first  one,  then 
another.  I  won't  stand  it  —  I  won't  stand  it  — "  He  looked 
at  Alvina  with  a  look  of  frenzy  as  he  lapsed  again,  fell  with 
his  head  on  his  hands  on  his  ticket-board.  Alvina  looked  at 
Mr.  May. 

"We  must  get  him  home,"  she  said.  She  covered  him  up 
with  a  coat,  and  sat  by  him.  The  performance  went  on  with- 
out music.  At  last  the  cab  came.  James,  unconscious,  was 
driven  up  to  Woodhouse.  He  had  to  be  carried  indoors.  Al- 
vina hurried  ahead  to  make  a  light  in  the  dark  passage. 


ALVINA  BECOMES  ALLAYE  195 

"  Father's  ill !  "  she  announced  to  Miss  Pinnegar. 

"  Didn't  I  say  so !  "  said  Miss  Pinnegar,  starting  from  her 
chair. 

The  two  women  went  out  to  meet  the  cab-man,  who  had 
James  in  his  arms. 

"  Can  you  manage?  "  cried  Alvina,  showing  a  light. 

"  He  doesn't  weigh  much,"  said  the  man. 

"  Tu-tu-tu-tu-tu-tu-tu !  "  went  Miss  Pinnegar's  tongue,  in  a 
rapid  tut-tut  of  distress.  "What  have  I  said,  now,"  she 
exclaimed.  "What  have  I  said  all  along?  " 

James  was  laid  on  the  sofa.  His  eyes  were  half-shut.  They 
made  him  drink  brandy,  the  boy  was  sent  for  the  doctor, 
Alvina's  bed  was  warmed.  The  sick  man  was  got  to  bed. 
And  then  started  another  vigil.  Alvina  sat  up  in  the  sick 
room.  James  started  and  muttered,  but  did  not  regain  con- 
sciousness. Dawn  came,  and  he  was  the  same.  Pneumonia 
and  pleurisy  and  a  touch  of  meningitis.  Alvina  drank  her 
tea,  took  a  little  breakfast,  and  went  to  bed  at  about  nine 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  leaving  James  in  charge  of  Miss  Pinne- 
gar. Time  was  all  deranged. 

Miss  Pinnegar  was  a  nervous  nurse.  She  sat  in  horror  and 
apprehension,  her  eyebrows  raised,  starting  and  looking  at 
James  in  terror  whenever  he  made  a  noise.  She  hurried  to 
him  and  did  what  she  could.  But  one  would  have  said  she 
was  repulsed,  she  found  her  task  unconsciously  repugnant. 

During  the  course  of  the  morning  Mrs.  Rollings  came  up 
and  said  that  the  Italian  from  last  week  had  come,  and  could 
he  speak  to  Miss  Houghton. 

"Tell  him  she's  resting,  and  Mr.  Houghton  is  seriously 
ill,"  said  Miss  Pinnegar  sharply. 

When  Alvina  came  downstairs  at  about  four  in  the  after- 
noon she  found  a  package:  a  comb  of  carved  bone,  and  a 
message  from  Madame:  "To  Miss  Houghton,  with  kindest 
greetings  and  most  sincere  thanks  from  Kishwegin." 

The  comb  with  its  carved,  beast-faced  serpent  was  her  por- 
tion. Alvina  asked  if  there  had  been  any  other  message. 
None. 

Mr.  May  came  in,  and  stayed  for  a  dismal  half-hour.  Then 
Alvina  went  back  to  her  nursing.  The  patient  was  no  better, 
still  unconscious.  Miss  Pinnegar  came  down,  red  eyed  and 
sullen  looking.  The  condition  of  James  gave  little  room  for 
hope. 


196  THE  LOST  GIRL 

In  the  early  morning  he  died.  Alvina  called  Mrs.  Rollings, 
and  they  composed  the  body.  It  was  still  only  five  o'clock, 
and  not  light.  Alvina  went  to  lie  down  in  her  father's  little, 
rather  chilly  chamber  at  the  end  of  the  corridor.  She  tried 
to  sleep,  but  could  not.  At  half-past  seven  she  arose,  and 
started  the  business  of  the  new  day.  The  doctor  came  —  she 
went  to  the  registrar  —  and  so  on. 

Mr.  May  came.  It  was  decided  to  keep  open  the  theatre. 
He  would  find  some  one  else  for  the  piano,  some  one  else  to 
issue  the  tickets. 

In  the  afternoon  arrived  Frederick  Houghton,  James's 
cousin  and  nearest  relative.  He  was  a  middle-aged,  blond, 
florid,  church-going  draper  from  Knarborough,  well-to-do  and 
very  bourgeois.  He  tried  to  talk  to  Alvina  in  a  fatherly 
fashion,  or  a  friendly,  or  a  helpful  fashion.  But  Alvina 
could  not  listen  to  him.  He  got  on  her  nerves. 

Hearing  the  gate  bang,  she  rose  and  hurried  to  the  window. 
She  was  in  the  drawing-room  with  her  cousin,  to  give  the  inter- 
view its  proper  air  of  solemnity.  She  saw  Ciccio  rearing  his 
yellow  bicycle  against  the  wall,  and  going  with  his  head  for- 
ward along  the  narrow,  dark  way  of  the  back  yard,  to  the 
scullery  door. 

"  Excuse  me  a  minute,"  she  said  to  her  cousin,  who  looked 
up  irritably  as  she  left  the  room. 

She  was  just  in  time  to  open  the  door  as  Ciccio  tapped. 
She  stood  on  the  doorstep  above  him.  He  looked  up,  with  a 
faint  smile,  from  under  his  black  lashes. 

"  How  nice  of  you  to  come,"  she  said.  But  her  face  was 
blanched  and  tired,  without  expression.  Only  her  large  eyes 
looked  blue  in  their  tiredness,  as  she  glanced  down  at  Ciccio. 
He  seemed  to  her  far  away. 

"Madame  asks  how  is  Mr.  Houghton,"  he  said. 

"  Father !     He  died  this  morning,"  she  said  quietly. 

"  He  died !  "  exclaimed  the  Italian,  a  flash  of  fear  and  dismay 
going  over  his  face. 

"  Yes  —  this  morning."  She  had  neither  tears  nor  emotion, 
but  just  looked  down  on  him  abstractedly,  from  her  height  on 
the  kitchen  step.  He  dropped  his  eyes  and  looked  at  his 
feet.  Then  he  lifted  his  eyes  again,  and  looked  at  her.  She 
looked  back  at  him,  as  from  across  a  distance.  So  they 
watched  each  other,  as  strangers  across  a  wide,  abstract  dis- 
tance. 


ALVINA  BECOMES  ALLAYE  197 

He  turned  and  looked  down  the  dark  yard,  towards  the 
gate  where  he  could  just  see  the  pale  grey  tire  of  his  bicycle, 
and  the  yellow  mud-guard.  He  seemed  to  be  reflecting.  If 
he  went  now,  he  went  for  ever.  Involuntarily  he  turned  and 
lifted  his  face  again  towards  Alvina,  as  if  studying  her  curi- 
ously. She  remained  there  on  the  door-step,  neutral,  blanched, 
with  wide,  still,  neutral  eyes.  She  did  not  seem  to  see  him. 
He  studied  her  with  alert,  yellow-dusky,  inscrutable  eyes,  until 
she  met  his  look.  And  then  he  gave  the  faintest  gesture  with 
his  head,  as  of  summons  towards  him.  Her  soul  started,  and 
died  in  her.  And  again  he  gave  the  slight,  almost  impercep- 
tible jerk  of  the  head,  backwards  and  sideways,  as  if  sum- 
moning her  towards  him.  His  face  too  was  closed  and  ex- 
pressionless. But  in  his  eyes,  which  kept  hers,  there  was  a 
dark  flicker  of  ascendancy.  He  was  going  to  triumph  over 
her.  She  knew  it.  And  her  soul  sank  as  if  it  sank  out  of 
her  body.  It  sank  away  out  of  her  body,  left  her  there 
powerless,  soulless. 

And  yet  as  he  turned,  with  his  head  stretched  forward,  to 
move  away:  as  he  glanced  slightly  over  his  shoulder:  she 
stepped  down  from  the  step,  down  to  his  level,  to  follow 
him.  He  went  ducking  along  the  dark  yard,  nearly  to  the 
gate.  Near  the  gate,  near  his  bicycle,  was  A  corner  made  by  a 
shed.  Here  he  turned,  lingeringly,  to  her,  and  she  lingered 
in  front  of  him. 

Her  eyes  were  wide  and  neutral  and  submissive,  with  a 
new,  awful  submission  as  if  she  had  lost  her  soul.  So  she 
looked  up  at  him,  like  a  victim.  There  was  a  faint  smile  in 
his  eyes.  He  stretched  forward  over  her. 

"You  love  me?  Yes? — Yes?"  he  said,  in  a  voice  that 
seemed  like  a  palpable  contact  on  her. 

"  Yes,"  she  whispered  involuntarily,  soulless,  like  a  victim. 
He  put  his  arm  round  her,  subtly,  and  lifted  her. 

"  Yes,"  he  re-echoed,  almost  mocking  in  his  triumph.  "  Yes. 
Yes!  "  And  smiling,  he  kissed  her,  delicately,  with  a  certain 
finesse  of  knowledge.  She  moaned  in  spirit,  in  his  arms,  felt 
herself  dead,  dead.  And  he  kissed  her  with  a  finesse,  a  pas- 
sionate finesse  which  seemed  like  coals  of  fire  on  her  head. 

They  heard  footsteps.  Miss  Pinnegar  was  coming  to  look 
for  her.  Ciccio  set  her  down,  looked  long  into  her  eyes,  in- 
scrutably, smiling,  and  said: 

"  I  come  tomorrow." 


198  THE  LOST  GIRL 

With  which  he  ducked  and  ran  out  of  the  yard,  picking  up 
his  bicycle  like  a  feather,  and,  taking  no  notice  of  Miss  Pinne- 
gar,  letting  the  yard-door  bang  to  behind  him. 

"Alvina!  "  said  Miss  Pinnegar. 

But  Alvina  did  not  answer.  She  turned,  slipped  past,  ran 
indoors  and  upstairs  to  the  little  bare  bedroom  she  had  made 
her  own.  She  locked  the  door  and  kneeled  down  on  the 
floor,  Rowing  down  her  head  to  her  knees  in  a  paroxysm  on 
the  floor.  In  a  paroxysm  —  because  she  loved  him.  She 
doubled  herself  up  in  a  paroxysm  on  her  knees  on  the  floor  — 
because  she  loved  him.  It  was  far  more  like  pain,  like  agony, 
than  like  joy.  She  swayed  herself  to  and  fro  in  a  paroxysm 
of  unbearable  sensation,  because  she  loved  him. 

Miss  Pinnegar  came  and  knocked  at  the  door. 

"Alvina!  Alvina!  Oh,  you  are  there!  Whatever  are  you 
doing?  Aren't  you  coming  down  to  speak  to  your  cousin?  " 

"Soon,"  said  Alvina. 

And  taking  a  pillow  from  the  bed,  she  crushed  it  against 
herself  and  swayed  herself  unconsciously,  in  her  orgasm  of 
unbearable  feeling.  Right  in  her  bowels  she  felt  it  —  the 
terrible,  unbearable  feeling.  How  could  she  bear  it. 

She  crouched  over  until  she  became  still.  A  moment  of 
stillness  seemed  to  cover  her  like  sleep:  an  eternity  of  sleep 
in  that  one  second.  Then  she  roused  and  got  up.  She  went 
to  the  mirror,  still,  evanescent,  and  tidied  her  hair,  smoothed 
her  face.  She  was  so  still,  so  remote,  she  felt  that  nothing, 
nothing  could  ever  touch  her. 

And  so  she  went  downstairs,  to  that  horrible  cousin  of  her 
father's.  She  seemed  so  intangible,  remote  and  virginal,  that 
her  cousin  and  Miss  Pinnegar  both  failed  to  make  anything 
of  her.  She  answered  their  questions  simply,  but  did  not 
talk.  They  talked  to  each  other.  And  at  last  the  cousin 
went  away,  with  a  profound  dislike  of  Miss  Alvina. 

She  did  not  notice.  She  was  only  glad  he  was  gone.  And 
she  went  about  for  the  rest  of  the  day  elusive  and  vague.  She 
slept  deeply  that  night,  without  dreams. 

The  next  day  was  Saturday.  It  came  with  a  great  storm  of 
wind  and  rain  and  hail:  a  fury.  Alvina  looked  out  in  dis- 
may. She  knew  Ciccio  would  not  be  able  to  come  —  he  could 
not  cycle,  and  it  was  impossible  to  get  by  train  and  return 
the  same  day.  She  was  almost  relieved.  She  was  relieved 


ALVINA  BECOMES  ALLAYE  199 

by  the  intermission  of  fate,  she  was  thankful  for  the  day  of 
neutrality. 

In  the  early  afternoon  came  a  telegram:  Coming  both  to- 
morrow morning  deepest  sympathy  Madame.  Tomorrow  was 
Sunday:  and  the  funeral  was  in  the  afternoon.  Alvina  felt  a 
burning  inside  her,  thinking  of  Ciccio.  She  winced  —  and 
yet  she  wanted  him  to  come.  Terribly  she  wanted  him  to 
come. 

She  showed  the  telegram  to  Miss  Pinnegar. 

"  Good  gracious !  "  said  the  weary  Miss  Pinnegar.  "  Fancy 
those  people.  And  I  warrant  they'll  want  to  be  at  the  funeral. 
As  if  he  was  anything  to  them  — " 

"  I  think  it's  very  nice  of  her,"  said  Alvina. 

"  Oh  well,"  said  Miss  Pinnegar.  "  If  you  think  so.  I  don't 
fancy  he  would  have  wanted  such  people  following,  myself. 
And  what  does  she  mean  by  both.  Who's  the  other?  "  Miss 
Pinnegar  looked  sharply  at  Alvina. 

"  Ciccio,"  said  Alvina. 

"The  Italian!  Why  goodness  me!  What's  he  coming  for? 
I  can't  make  you  out,  Alvina.  Is  that  his  name,  Chicho?  I 
never  heard  such  a  name.  Doesn't  sound  like  a  name  at  all 
to  me.  There  won't  be  room  for  them  in  the  cabs." 

"  We'll  order  another." 

"  More  expense.     I  never  knew  such  impertinent  people  — " 

But  Alvina  did  not  hear  her.  On  the  next  morning  she 
dressed  herself  carefully  in  her  new  dress.  It  was  black 
voile.  Carefully  she  did  her  hair.  Ciccio  and  Madame  were 
coming.  The  thought  of  Ciccio  made  her  shudder.  She  hung 
about,  waiting.  Luckily  none  of  the  funeral  guests  would 
arrive  till  after  one  o'clock.  Alvina  sat  listless,  musing,  by 
the  fire  in  the  drawing-room.  She  left  everything  now  to 
Miss  Pinnegar  and  Mrs.  Rollings.  Miss  Pinnegar,  red-eyed 
and  yellow-skinned,  was  irritable  beyond  words. 

It  was  nearly  mid-day  when  Alvina  heard  the  gate.  She 
hurried  to  open  the  front  door.  Madame  was  in  her  little 
black  hat  and  her  black  spotted  veil,  Ciccio  in  a  black  over- 
coat was  closing  the  yard  door  behind  her. 

"  Oh,  my  dear  girl !  "  Madame  cried,  trotting  forward  with 
outstretched  black-kid  hands,  one  of  which  held  an  umbrella: 
"  I  am  so  shocked  —  I  am  so  shocked  to  hear  of  your  poor 
father.  Am  I  to  believe  it?  —  am  I  really?  INfo,  I  can't." 


200  THE  LOST  GIRL 

She  lifted  her  veil,  kissed  Alvina,  and  dabbed  her  eyes. 
Ciccio  came  up  the  steps.  He  took  off  his  hat  to  Alvina, 
smiled  slightly  as  he  passed  her.  He  looked  rather  pale,  con- 
strained. She  closed  the  door  and  ushered  them  into  the 
drawing-room. 

Madame  looked  round  like  a  bird,  examining  the  room 
and  the  furniture.  She  was  evidently  a  little  impressed.  But 
all  the  time  she  was  uttering  her  condolences. 

"Tell  me,  poor  girl,  how  it  happened?  " 

"  There  isn't  much  to  tell,"  said  Alvina,  and  she  gave  the 
brief  account  of  James's  illness  and  death. 

"  Worn  out !  Worn  out !  "  Madame  said,  nodding  slowly 
up  and  down.  Her  black  veil,  pushed  up,  sagged  over  her 
brows  like  a  mourning  band.  "You  cannot  afford  to  waste 
the  stamina.  And  will  you  keep  on  the  theatre  —  with  Mr. 
May—?" 

Ciccio  was  sitting  looking  towards  the  fire.  His  presence 
made  Alvina  tremble.  She  noticed  how  the  fine  black  hair 
of  his  head  showed  no  parting  at  all  —  it  just  grew  like  a  close 
cap,  and  was  pushed  aside  at  the  forehead.  Sometimes  he 
looked  at  her,  as  Madame  talked,  and  again  looked  at  her, 
and  looked  away. 

At  last  Madame  came  to  a  halt.     There  was  a  long  pause. 

"You  will  stay  to  the  funeral?  "  said  Alvina. 

"  Oh  my  dear,  we  shall  be  too  much  — " 

"  No,"  said  Alvina.     "  I  have  arranged  for  you  — " 

"There!  You  think  of  everything.  But  I  will  come,  not 
Ciccio.  He  will  not  trouble  you." 

Ciccio  looked  up  at  Alvina. 

"  I  should  like  him  to  come,"  said  Alvina  simply.  But  a 
deep  flush  began  to  mount  her  face.  She  did  not  know  where 
it  came  from,  she  felt  so  cold.  And  she  wanted  to  cry. 

Madame  watched  her  closely. 

"  Siamo  di  accordo,"  came  the  voice  of  Ciccio. 

Alvina  and  Madame  both  looked  at  him.  He  sat  con- 
strained, with  his  face  averted,  his  eyes  dropped,  but  smiling. 

Madame  looked  closely  at  Alvina. 

"  Is  it  true  what  he  says?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  don't  understand  him,"  said  Alvina.  "  I  don't  under- 
stand what  he  said." 

"  That  you  have  agreed  with  him  — " 

Madame  and  Ciccio  both  watched  Alvina  as  she  sat  in  her 


ALVINA  BECOMES  ALLAYE  201 

new    black    dress.     Her    eyes    involuntarily    turned    to    his. 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  said  vaguely.  "  Have  I  — ?  "  and  she 
looked  at  him. 

Madame  kept  silence  for  some  moments.  Then  she  said 
gravely: 

"  Well !  —  yes !  —  well !  "  She  looked  from  one  to  another. 
"  Well,  there  is  a  lot  to  consider.  But  if  you  have  decided  — " 

Neither  of  them  answered.  Madame  suddenly  rose  and 
went  to  Alvina.  She  kissed  her  on  either  cheek. 

"  I  shall  protect  you,"  she  said. 

Then  she  returned  to  her  seat. 

"What  have  you  said  to  Miss  Houghton?  "  she  said  sud- 
denly to  Ciccio,  tackling  him  direct,  and  speaking  coldly. 

He  looked  at  Madame  with  a  faint  derisive  smile.  Then 
he  turned  to  Alvina.  She  bent  her  head  and  blushed. 

"  Speak  then,"  said  Madame,  "  you  have  a  reason."  She 
seemed  mistrustful  of  him. 

But  he  turned  aside  his  face,  and  refused  to  speak,  sitting 
as  if  he  were  unaware  of  Madame's  presence. 

"  Oh  well,"  said  Madame.     "  I  shall  be  there,  Signorino." 

She  spoke  with  a  half-playful  threat.     Ciccio  curled  his  lip. 

"You  do  not  know  him  yet,"  she  said,  turning  to  Alvina. 

"I  know  that,"  said  Alvina,  offended.  Then  she  added: 
"Wouldn't  you  like  to  take  off  your  hat?  " 

"  If  you  truly  wish  me  to  stay,"  said  Madame. 

"Yes,  please  do.  And  will  you  hang  your  coat  in  the 
hall?  "  she  said  to  Ciccio. 

"  Oh !  "  said  Madame  roughly.  "  He  will  not  stay  to  eat. 
He  will  go  out  to  somewhere." 

Alvina  looked  at  him. 

"Would  you  rather?  "  she  said. 

He  looked  at  her  with  sardonic  yellow  eyes. 

"  If  you  want,"  he  said,  the  awkward,  derisive  smile  curling 
his  lips  and  showing  his  teeth. 

She  had  a  moment  of  sheer  panic.  Was  he  just  stupid  and 
bestial?  The  thought  went  clean  through  her.  His  yellow 
eyes  watched  her  sardonically.  It  was  the  clean  modelling 
of  his  dark,  other-world  face  that  decided  her  —  for  it  sent 
the  deep  spasm  across  her. 

"  I'd  like  you  to  stay,"  she  said. 

A  smile  of  triumph  went  over  his  face.  Madame  watched 
him  stonily  as  she  stood  beside  her  chair,  one  hand  lightly 


202  THE  LOST  GIRL 

balanced  on  her  hip.  Alvina  was  reminded  of  Kishwegin. 
But  even  in  Madame's  stony  mistrust  there  was  an  element 
of  attraction  towards  him.  He  had  taken  his  cigarette  case 
from  his  pocket. 

"  On  ne  fume  pas  dans  le  salon,"  said  Madame  brutally. 

"  Will  you  put  your  coat  in  the  passage?  —  and  do  smoke 
if  you  wish,"  said  Alvina. 

He  rose  to  his  feet  and  took  off  his  overcoat.  His  face 
was  obstinate  and  mocking.  He  was  rather  floridly  dressed, 
though  in  black,  and  wore  boots  of  black  patent  leather  with 
tan  uppers.  Handsome  he  was  —  but  undeniably  in  bad  taste. 
The  silver  ring  was  still  on  his  finger  —  and  his  close,  fine, 
unparted  hair  went  badly  with  smart  English  clothes.  He 
looked  common  —  Alvina  confessed  it.  And  her  heart  sank. 
But  what  was  she  to  do?  He  evidently  was  not  happy. 
Obstinacy  made  him  stick  out  the  situation. 

Alvina  and  Madame  went  upstairs.  Madame  wanted  to 
see  the  dead  James.  She  looked  at  his  frail,  handsome, 
ethereal  face,  and  crossed  herself  as  she  wept. 

"  Un  bel  homme,  cependant,"  she  whispered.  "  Mort  en 
un  jour.  C'est  trop  fort,  voyez!  "  And  she  sniggered  with 
fear  and  sobs. 

They  went  down  to  Alvina's  bare  room.  Madame  glanced 
round,  as  she  did  in  every  room  she  entered. 

"This  was  father's  bedroom,"  said  Alvina.  "The  other 
was  mine.  He  wouldn't  have  it  anything  but  like  this  — 
bare." 

"  Nature  of  a  monk,  a  hermit,"  whispered  Madame.  "  Who 
would  have  thought  it !  Ah,  the  men,  the  men !  " 

And  she  unpinned  her  hat  and  patted  her  hair  before  the 
small  mirror,  into  which  she  had  to  peep  to  see  herself. 
Alvina  stood  waiting. 

"And  now — "  whispered  Madame,  suddenly  turning: 
"What  about  this  Ciccio,  hein?  "  It  was  ridiculous  that  she 
would  not  raise  her  voice  above  a  whisper,  upstairs  there. 
But  so  it  was. 

She  scrutinized  Alvina  with  her  eyes  of  bright  black  glass. 
Alvina  looked  back  at  her,  but  did  not  know  what  to  say. 

What  about  him,  hein?     Will  you  marry  him?     Why  will 


you9 


"  I  suppose  because  I  like  him,"  said  Alvina,  flushing. 
Madame  made  a  little  grimace. 


ALVINA  BECOMES  ALLAYE  203 

"  Oh  yes !  "  she  whispered,  with  a  contemptuous  mouth. 
"  Oh  yes !  —  because  you  like  him !  But  you  know  nothing  of 
him  —  nothing.  How  can  you  like  him,  not  knowing  him? 
He  may  be  a  real  bad  character.  How  would  you  like  him 
then?  " 

"He  isn't,  is  he?  "  said  Alvina. 

"  I  don't  know.  I  don't  know.  He  may  be.  Even  I,  I 
don't  know  him  —  no,  though  he  has  been  with  me  for  three 
years.  What  is  he?  He  is  a  man  of  the  people,  a  boatman, 
a  labourer,  an  artist's  model.  He  sticks  to  nothing  — " 

"How  old  is  he?  "  asked  Alvina. 

"  He  is  twenty-five  —  a  boy  only.  And  you?  You  are 
older." 

"  Thirty,"  confessed  Alvina. 

"Thirty!  Well  now  —  so  much  difference!  How  can  you 
trust  him?  How  can  you?  Why  does  he  want  to  marry  you 
—  why?" 

"  I  don't  know  — "  said  Alvina. 

"No,  and  I  don't  know.  But  I  know  something  of  these 
Italian  men,  who  are  labourers  in  every  country,  just  labourers 
and  under-men  always,  always  down,  down,  down — "  And 
Madame  pressed  her  spread  palms  downwards.  "  And  so  — 
when  they  have  a  chance  to  come  up  — "  she  raised  her  hand 
with  a  spring  — "  they  are  very  conceited,  and  they  take  their 
chance.  He  will  want  to  rise,  by  you,  and  you  will  go  down, 
with  him.  That  is  how  it  is.  I  have  seen  it  before  —  yes  — 
more  than  one  time  — " 

"  But,"  said  Alvina,  laughing  ruefully.  "  He  can't  rise 
much  because  of  me,  can  he?  " 

"How  not?  How  not?  In  the  first  place,  you  are  Eng- 
lish, and  he  thinks  to  rise  by  that.  Then  you  are  not  of  the 
lower  class,  you  are  of  the  higher  class,  the  class  of  the 
masters,  such  as  employ  Ciccio  and  men  like  him.  How 
will  he  not  rise  in  the  world  by  you?  Yes,  he  will  rise  very 
much.  Or  he  will  draw  you  down,  down —  Yes,  one  or 
another.  And  then  he  thinks  that  now  you  have  money  — 
now  your  father  is  dead — "  here  Madame  glanced  appre- 
hensively at  the  closed  door  — "  and  they  all  like  money,  yes, 
very  much,  all  Italians — " 

"Do  they?"  said  Alvina,  scared.  "I'm  sure  there  won't 
be  any  money.  I'm  sure  father  is  in  debt." 

"What?     You  think?     Do  you?     Really?     Oh  poor  Miss 


204  THE  LOST  GIRL 

Houghton!  Well  — and  will  you  tell  Ciccio  that?  Eh? 
Hein?  " 

"  Yes  —  certainly  —  if  it  matters,"  said  poor  Alvina. 

"  Of  course  it  matters.  Of  course  it  matters  very  much. 
It  matters  to  him.  Because  he  will  not  have  much.  He 
saves,  saves,  saves,  as  they  all  do,  to  go  back  to  Italy  and 
buy  a  piece  of  land.  And  if  he  has  you,  it  will  cost  him 
much  more,  he  cannot  continue  with  Natcha-Kee-Tawara.  All 
will  be  much  more  difficult  — " 

"  Oh,  I  will  tell  him  in  time,"  said  Alvina,  pale  at  the  lips. 

"You  will  tell  him!  Yes.  That  is  better.  And  then  you 
will  see.  But  he  is  obstinate  —  as  a  mule.  And  if  he  will 
still  have  you,  then  you  must  think.  Can  you  live  in  Eng- 
land as  the  wife  of  a  labouring  man,  a  dirty  Eyetalian,  as  they 
all  say?  It  is  serious.  It  is  not  pleasant  for  you,  who  have 
not  known  it.  I  also  have  not  known  it.  But  I  have  seen  — " 
Alvina  watched  with  wide,  troubled  eyes,  while  Madame  darted 
looks,  as  from  bright,  deep  black  glass. 

"  Yes,"  said  Alvina.  "  I  should  hate  being  a  labourer's 
wife  in  a  nasty  little  house  in  a  street  — 

"  In  a  house?  "  cried  Madame.  "  It  would  not  be  in  a 
house.  They  live  many  together  in  one  house.  It  would 
be  two  rooms,  or  even  one  room,  in  another  house  with  many 
people  not  quite  clean,  you  see — " 

Alvina  shook  her  head. 

"I  couldn't  stand  that,"  she  said  finally. 

"No!  "  Madame  nodded  approval.  "No!  you  could  not. 
They  live  in  a  bad  way,  the  Italians.  They  do  not  know  the 
English  home  —  never.  They  don't  like  it.  Nor  do  they 
know  the  Swiss  clean  and  proper  house.  No.  They  don't 
understand.  They  run  into  their  holes  to  sleep  or  to  shelter, 
and  that  is  all." 

"  The  same  in  Italy?  "  said  Alvina. 

"  Even  more  —  because  there  it  is  sunny  very  often  — " 

"  And  you  don't  need  a  house,"  said  Alvina.  "  I  should 
like  that." 

"Yes,  it  is  nice  —  but  you  don't  know  the  life.  And  you 
would  be  alone  with  people  like  animals.  And  if  you  go  to 
Italy  he  will  beat  you  —  he  will  beat  you  — 

"  If  I  let  him,"  said  Alvina. 

"  But  you  can't  help  it,  away  there  from  everybody.  No- 
body will  help  you.  If  you  are  a  wife  in  Italy,  nobody  will 


ALVINA  BECOMES  ALLAYE  205 

help  you.  You  are  his  property,  when  you  marry  by  Italian 
law.  It  is  not  like  England.  There  is  no  divorce  in  Italy. 
And  if  he  beats  you,  you  are  helpless  — 

"  But  why  should  he  beat  me?  "  said  Alvina.  "  Why  should 
he  want  to?  " 

"  They  do.  They  are  so  jealous.  And  then  they  go  into 
their  ungovernable  tempers,  horrible  tempers  — 

"  Only  when  they  are  provoked,"  said  Alvina,  thinking  of 
Max. 

"Yes,  but  you  will  not  know  what  provokes  him.  Who 
can  say  when  he  will  be  provoked?  And  then  he  beats 
you- 

There  seemed  to  be  a  gathering  triumph  in  Madame's 
bright  black  eyes.  Alvina  looked  at  her,  and  turned  to  the 
door. 

"  At  any  rate  I  know  now,"  she  said,  in  rather  a  flat  voice. 

"  And  .it  is  true.  It  is  all  of  it  true,"  whispered  Madame 
vindictively.  Alvina  wanted  to  run  from  her. 

"I  must  go  to  the  kitchen,"  she  said.  "Shall  we  go 
down?  " 

Alvina  did  not  go  into  the  drawing-room  with  Madame. 
She  was  too  much  upset,  and  she  had  almost  a  horror  of 
seeing  Ciccio  at  that  moment. 

Miss  Pinnegar,  her  face  stained  carmine  by  the  fire,  was 
helping  Mrs.  Rollings  with  the  dinner. 

"Are  they  both  staying,  or  only  one?  "  she  said  tartly. 

"  Both,"  said  Alvina,  busying  herself  with  the  gravy,  to 
hide  her  distress  and  confusion. 

"  The  man  as  well,"  said  Miss  Pinnegar.  "  What  does 
the  woman  want  to  bring  him  for?  I'm  sure  I  don't  know 
what  your  father  would  say  —  a  common  show-fellow,  looks 
what  he  is  —  and  staying  to  dinner." 

Miss  Pinnegar  was  thoroughly  out  of  temper  as  she  tried 
the  potatoes.  Alvina  set  the  table.  Then  she  went  to  the 
drawing-room. 

"  Will  you  come  to  dinner  ?  "  she  said  to  her  two  guests. 

Ciccio  rose,  threw  his  cigarette  into  the  fire,  and  looked 
round.  Outside  was  a  faint,  watery  sunshine:  but  at  least 
it  was  out  of  doors.  He  felt  himself  imprisoned  and  out  of 
his  element.  He  had  an  irresistible  impulse  to  go. 

When  he  got  into  the  hall  he  laid  his  hand  on  his  hat. 
The  stupid,  constrained  smile  was  on  his  face. 


206  THE  LOST  GIRL 

"  111  go  now,"  he  said. 

"  We  have  set  the  table  for  you,"  said  Alvina. 

"  Stop  now,  since  you  have  stopped  for  so  long,"  said 
Madame,  darting  her  black  looks  at  him. 

But  he  hurried  on  his  coat,  looking  stupid.  Madame  lifted 
her  eyebrows  disdainfully. 

"This  is  polite  behaviour!  "  she  said  sarcastically. 

Alvina  stood  at  a  loss. 

"You  return  to  the  funeral?  "  said  Madame  coldly. 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  When  you  are  ready  to  go,"  he  said. 

"At  four  o'clock,"  said  Madame,  "when  the  funeral  has 
come  home.  Then  we  shall  be  in  time  for  the  train." 

He  nodded,  smiled  stupidly,  opened  the  door,  and  went. 

"This  is  just  like  him,  to  be  so  —  so — "  Madame  could 
not  express  herself  as  she  walked  down  to  the  kitchen. 

"  Miss  Pinnegar,  this  is  Madame,"  said  Alvina. 

"  How  do  you  do  ?  "  said  Miss  Pinnegar,  a  little  distant 
and  condescending.  Madame  eyed  her  keenly. 

"Where  is  the  man?  I  don't  know  his  name,"  said  Miss 
Pinnegar. 

"  He  wouldn't  stay,"  said  Alvina.  "  What  is  his  name, 
Madame?  " 

"  Marasca  —  Francesco.  Francesco  Marasca  —  Neapoli- 
tan." 

"  Marasca!  "  echoed  Alvina. 

"  It  has  a  bad  sound  —  a  sound  of  a  bad  augury,  bad 
sign,"  said  Madame.  "Ma-ra-sca!"  She  shook  her  head 
at  the  taste  of  the  syllables. 

"Why  do  you  think  so?"  said  Alvina.  "Do  you  think 
there  is  a  meaning  in  sounds?  goodness  and  badness?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Madame.  "  Certainly.  Some  sounds  are  good, 
they  are  for  life,  for  creating,  and  some  sounds  are  bad,  they 
are  for  destroying.  Ma-ra-sca!  — that  is  bad,  like  swearing." 

"But  what  sort  of  badness?  What  does  it  do?"  said 
Alvina. 

"What  does  it  do?  It  sends  life  down  —  down  —  instead 
of  lifting  it  up." 

"Why  should  things  always  go  up?  Why  should  life 
always  go  up?  "  said  Alvina. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Madame,  cutting  her  meat  quickly. 
There  was  a  pause. 


ALVINA  BECOMES  ALLAYE  207 

"And  what  about  other  names,"  interrupted  Miss  Pinne- 
gar,  a  little  lofty.  "  What  about  Houghton,  for  example?  " 

Madame  put  down  her  fork,  but  kept  her  knife  in  her 
hand.  She  looked  across  the  room,  not  at  Miss  Pinnegar. 

"Houghton—!  Huff-ton!"  she  said.  "When  it  is  said, 
it  has  a  sound  against:  that  is,  against  the  neighbour,  against 
humanity.  But  when  it  is  written  Hough-ton!  then  it  is  differ- 
ent, it  is  for" 

"  It  is  always  pronounced  Huff-ton,"  said  Miss  Pinnegar. 

"  By  us,"  said  Alvina. 

"  We  ought  to  know,"  said  Miss  Pinnegar. 

Madame  turned  to  look  at  the  unhappy,  elderly  woman. 

"  You  are  a  relative  of  the  family?  "  she  said. 

"  No,  not  a  relative.  But  I've  been  here  many  years," 
said  Miss  Pinnegar. 

"  Oh,  yes !  "  said  Madame.  Miss  Pinnegar  was  frightfully 
affronted.  The  meal,  with  the  three  women  at  table,  passed 
painfully. 

Miss  Pinnegar  rose  to  go  upstairs  and  weep.  She  felt 
very  forlorn.  Alvina  rose  to  wipe  the  dishes,  hastily,  be- 
cause the  funeral  guests  would  all  be  coming.  Madame  went 
into  the  drawing-room  to  smoke  her  sly  cigarette. 

Mr.  May  was  the  first  to  turn  up  for  the  lugubrious  affair: 
very  tight  and  tailored,  but  a  little  extinguished,  all  in 
black.  He  never  wore  black,  and  was  very  unhappy  in  it, 
being  almost  morbidly  sensitive  to  the  impression  the  colour 
made  on  him.  He  was  set  to  entertain  Madame. 

She  did  not  pretend  distress,  but  sat  black-eyed  and  watch- 
ful, very  much  her  business  self. 

"What  about  the  theatre?  — will  it  go  on?  "  she  asked. 

"Well  I  don't  know.  I  don't  know  Miss  Houghton's  in- 
tentions," said  Mr.  May.  He  was  a  little  stilted  today. 

"It's  hers?"  said  Madame. 

"  Why,  as  far  as  I  understand  — " 

"  And  if  she  wants  to  sell  out  — ?  " 

Mr.  May  spread  his  hands,  and  looked  dismal,  but  distant. 

"You  should  form  a  company,  and  carry  on — "  said 
Madame. 

Mr.  May  looked  even  more  distant,  drawing  himself  up  in 
an  odd  fashion,  so  that  he  looked  as  if  he  were  trussed.  But 
Madame's  shrewd  black  eyes  and  busy  mind  did  not  let  him 
off. 


208  THE  LOST  GIRL 

"  Buy  Miss  Houghton  out  — "  said  Madame  shrewdly. 

"  Of  cauce,"  said  Mr.  May.  "  Miss  Houghton  herself  must 
decide." 

"  Oh  sure  — !      You  —  are  you  married?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Your  wife  here?  " 

"  My  wife  is  in  London." 

" And  children—  ?" 

"A  daughter." 

Madame  slowly  nodded  her  head  up  and  down,  as  if  she 
put  thousands  of  two-and-two's  together. 

"  You  think  there  will  be  much  to  come  to  Miss  Houghton?  " 
she  said. 

"  Do  you  mean  property?  I  really  can't  say.  I  haven't 
enquired." 

"  No,  but  you  have  a  good  idea,  eh?  " 

"  I'm  afraid  I  haven't. 

"  No !     Well !     It  won't  be  much,  then?  " 

"Really,  I  don't  know.  I  should  say,  not  a  large  for- 
tune—!" 

"  No  —  eh?  "  Madame  kept  him  fixed  with  her  black  eyes. 
"  Do  you  think  the  other  one  will  get  anything?  " 

"The  other  one — ?  "  queried  Mr.  May,  with  an  uprising 
cadence.  Madame  nodded  slightly  towards  the  kitchen. 

"  The  old  one  —  the  Miss  —  Miss  Pin  —  Pinny  —  what  you 
call  her." 

"Miss  Pinnegar!  The  manageress  of  the  work-girls? 
Really,  I  don't  know  at  all  — "  Mr.  May  was  most  freezing. 

"  Ha  —  ha !  Ha  —  ha !  "  mused  Madame  quietly.  Then 
she  asked:  "Which  work-girls  do  you  say?  " 

And  she  listened  astutely  to  Mr.  May's  forced  account  of 
the  work-room  upstairs,  extorting  all  the  details  she  desired 
to  gather.  Then  there  was  a  pause.  Madame  glanced  round 
the  room. 

"  Nice  house!  "  she  said.     "  Is  it  their  own?  " 

'"  So  I  believe  — " 

Again  Madame  nodded  sagely.  "Debts  perhaps  —  eh? 
Mortgage — "  and  she  looked  slyly  sardonic. 

"Really!  "  said  Mr.  May,  bouncing  to  his  feet.  "Do  you 
mind  if  I  go  to  speak  to  Mrs.  Rollings  — " 

"  Oh  no  —  go  along,"  said  Madame,  and  Mr.  May  skipped 
out  in  a  temper. 


ALVINA  BECOMES  ALLAYE  209 

Madame  was  left  alone  in  her  comfortable  chair,  studying 
details  of  the  room  and  making  accounts  in  her  own  mind, 
until  the  actual  funeral  guests  began  to  arrive.  And 
then  she  had  the  satisfaction  of  sizing  them  up.  Several 
arrived  with  wreaths.  The  coffin  had  been  carried  down 
and  laid  in  the  small  sitting-room  —  Mrs.  Houghton's  sitting- 
room.  It  was  covered  with  white  wreaths  and  streamers  of 
purple  ribbon.  There  was  a  crush  and  a  confusion. 

And  then  at  last  the  hearse  and  the  cabs  had  arrived  —  the 
coffin  was  carried  out  —  Alvina  followed,  on  the  arm  of  her 
father's  cousin,  whom  she  disliked.  Miss  Pinnegar  mar- 
shalled the  other  mourners.  It  was  a  wretched  business. 

But  it  was  a  great  funeral.  There  were  nine  cabs,  besides 
the  hearse  —  Woodhouse  had  revived  its  ancient  respect  for 
the  house  of  Houghton.  A  posse  of  minor  tradesmen  fol- 
lowed the  cabs  —  all  in  black  and  with  black  gloves.  The 
richer  tradesmen  sat  in  the  cabs. 

Poor  Alvina,  this  was  the  only  day  in  all  her  life  when 
she  was  the  centre  of  public  attention.  For  once,  every  eye 
was  upon  her,  every  mind  was  thinking  about  her.  Poor 
Alvina!  said  every  member  of  the  Woodhouse  "middle 
class " :  Poor  Alvina  Houghton,  said  every  collier's  wife. 
Poor  thing,  left  alone  —  and  hardly  a  penny  to  bless  herself 
with.  Lucky  if  she's  not  left  with  a  pile  of  debts.  James 
Houghton  ran  through  some  money  in  his  day.  Ay,  if  she 
had  her  rights  she'd  be  a  rich  woman.  Why,  her  mother 
brought  three  or  four  thousands  with  her.  Ay,  but  James 
sank  it  all  in  Throttle-Ha'penny  and  Klondyke  and  the 
Endeavour.  Well,  he  was  his  own  worst  enemy.  He  paid 
his  way.  I'm  not  so  sure  about  that.  Look  how  he  served 
his  wife,  and  now  Alvina.  I'm  not  so  sure  he  was  his  own 
worst  enemy.  He  was  bad  enough  enemy  to  his  own  flesh  and 
blood.  Ah  well,  he'll  spend  no  more  money,  anyhow.  No, 
he  went  sudden,  didn't  he?  But  he  was  getting  very  frail, 
if  you  noticed.  Oh  yes,  why  he  fair  seemed  to  totter  down 
to  Lumley.  Do  you  reckon  as  that  place  pays  its  way? 
What,  the  Endeavour? — they  say  it  does.  They  say  it 
makes  a  nice  bit.  Well,  it's  mostly  pretty  full.  Ay,  it  is. 
Perhaps  it  won't  be  now  Mr.  Houghton's  gone.  Perhaps 
not.  I  wonder  if  he  will  leave  much.  I'm  sure  he  won't. 
Everything  he's  got's  mortgaged  up  to  the  hilt.  He'll  leave 
debts,  you  see  if  he  doesn't.  What  is  she  going  to  do  then? 


210  THE  LOST  GIRL 

She'll  have  to  go  out  of  Manchester  House  —  her  and  Miss 
Pinnegar.  Wonder  what  she'll  do.  Perhaps  she'll  take  up 
that  nursing.  She  never  made  much  of  that,  did  she  —  and 
spent  a  sight  of  money  on  her  training,  they  say.  She's  a  bit 
like  her  father  in  the  business  line  —  all  flukes.  Pity 
some  nice  young  man  doesn't  turn  up  and  marry  her.  I 
don't  know,  she  doesn't  seem  to  hook  on,  does  she?  Why 
she's  never  had  a  proper  boy.  They  make  out  she  was 
engaged  once.  Ay,  but  nobody  ever  saw  him,  and  it  was  off 
as  soon  as  it  was  on.  Can  you  remember  she  went  with 
Albert  Witham  for  a  bit.  Did  she?  No,  I  never  knew. 
When  was  that?  Why,  when  he  was  at  Oxford,  you  know, 
learning  for  his  head  master's  place.  Why  didn't  she  marry 
him  then?  Perhaps  he  never  asked  her.  Ay,  there's  that 
to  it.  She'd  have  looked  down  her  nose  at  him,  times  gone 
by.  Ay,  but  that's  all  over,  my  boy.  She'd  snap  at  any- 
body now.  Look  how  she  carries  on  with  that  manager. 
Why,  that's  something  awful.  Haven't  you  ever  watched  her 
in  the  Cinema?  She  never  lets  him  alone.  And  it's  anybody 
alike.  Oh,  she  doesn't  respect  herself.  I  don't  consider. 
No  girl  who  respected  herself  would  go  on  as  she  does, 
throwing  herself  at  every  feller's  head.  Does  she,  though? 
Ay,  any  performer  or  anybody.  She's  a  tidy  age,  though. 
She's  not  much  chance  of  getting  off.  How  old  do  you 
reckon  she  is?  Must  be  well  over  thirty.  You  never  say. 
Well,  she  looks  it.  She  does  beguy  —  a  dragged  old  maid. 
Oh  but  she  sprightles  up  a  bit  sometimes.  Ay,  when  she 
thinks  she's  hooked  on  to  somebody.  I  wonder  why  she  never 
did  take?  It's  funny.  Oh,  she  was  too  high  and  mighty 
before,  and  now  it's  too  late.  Nobody  wants  her.  And  she's 

fot  no  relations  to  go  to  either,  has  she?  No,  'that's  her 
ather's  cousin  who  she's  walking  with.  Look,  they're  coming. 
He's  a  fine-looking  man,  isn't  he?  You'd  have  thought  they'd 
have  buried  Miss  Frost  beside  Mrs.  Houghton.  You  would, 
wouldn't  you?  I  should  think  Alvina  will  lie  by  Miss 
Frost.  They  say  the  grave  was  made  for  both  of  them.  Ay, 
she  was  a  lot  more  of  a  mother  to  her  than  her  own  mother. 
She  was  good  to  them,  Miss  Frost  was.  Alvina  thought  the 
world  of  her.  That's  her  stone  —  look,  down  there.  Not  a 
very  grand  one,  considering.  No,  it  isn't.  Look,  there's 
room  for  Alvina's  name  underneath.  Sh !  — 

Alvina  had   sat  back   in   the  cab   and   watched   from   her 


ALVINA  BECOMES  ALLAYE  211 

obscurity  the  many  faces  on  the  street:  so  familiar,  so  familiar, 
familiar  as  her  own  face.  And  now  she  seemed  to  see  them 
from  a  great  distance,  out  of  her  darkness.  Her  big  cousin 
sat  opposite  her  —  how  she  disliked  his  presence. 

In  chapel  she  cried,  thinking  of  her  mother,  and  Miss 
Frost,  and  her  father.  She  felt  so  desolate  —  it  all  seemed  so 
empty.  Bitterly  she  cried,  when  she  bent  down  during  the 
prayer.  And  her  crying  started  Miss  Pinnegar,  who  cried 
almost  as  bitterly.  It  was  all  rather  horrible.  The  after- 
wards —  the  horrible  afterwards. 

There  was  the  slow  progress  to  the  cemetery.  It  was  a 
dull,  cold  day.  Alvina  shivered  as  she  stood  on  the  bleak 
hillside,  by  the  open  grace.  Her  coat  did  not  seem  warm 
enough,  her  old  black  seal-skin  furs  were  not  much  protec- 
tion. The  minister  stood  on  the  plank  by  the  grave,  and 
she  stood  near,  watching  the  white  flowers  blowing  in  the 
cold  wind.  She  had  watched  them  for  her  mother  —  and  for 
Miss  Frost.  She  felt  a  sudden  clinging  to  Miss  Pinnegar. 
Yet  they  would  have  to  part.  Miss  Pinnegar  had  been  so 
fond  of  her  father,  in  a  quaint,  reserved  way.  Poor  Miss 
Pinnegar,  that  was  all  life  had  offered  her.  Well,  after  all, 
it  had  been  a  home  and  a  home  life.  To  which  home  and 
home  life  Alvina  now  clung  with  a  desperate  yearning, 
knowing  inevitably  she  was  going  to  lose  it,  now  her  father 
was  gone.  Strange,  that  he  was  gone.  But  he  was  weary, 
worn  very  thin  and  weary.  He  had  lived  his  day.  How 
different  it  all  was,  now,  at  his  death,  from  the  time  when 
Alvina  knew  him  as  a  little  child  and  thought  him  such  a 
fine  gentleman.  You  live  and  learn  and  lose. 

For  one  moment  she  looked  at  Madame,  who  was  shud- 
dering with  cold,  her  face  hidden  behind  her  black  spotted 
veil.  But  Madame  seemed  immensely  remote:  so  unreal. 
And  Ciccio  —  what  was  his  name?  She  could  not  think  of  it. 
What  was  it?  She  tried  to  think  of  Madame's  slow  enun- 
ciation. Marasca  —  maraschino.  Marasca!  Maraschino! 
What  was  maraschino?  Where  had  she  heard  it.  Cudgel- 
ling her  brains,  she  remembered  the  doctors,  and  the  sup- 
pers after  the  theatre.  And  maraschino  —  why,  that  was 
the  favourite  white  liqueur  of  the  innocent  Dr.  Young.  She 
could  remember  even  now  the  way  he  seemed  to  smack  his 
lips,  saying  the  word  maraschino.  Yet  she  didn't  think 
much  of  it.  Hot,  bitterish  stuff  —  nothing:  not  like  green 


212  THE  LOST  GIRL 

Chartreuse,  which  Dr.  James  gave  her.  Maraschino!  Yes, 
that  was  it.  Made  from  cherries.  Well,  Ciccio's  name  was 
nearly  the  same.  Ridiculous!  But  she  supposed  Italian 
words  were  a  good  deal  alike. 

Ciccio,  the  marasca,  the  bitter  cherry,  was  standing  on  the 
edge  of  the  crowd,  looking  on.  He  had  no  connection  what- 
ever with  the  proceedings  —  stood  outside,  self-conscious,  un- 
comfortable, bitten  by  the  wind,  and  hating  the  people  who 
stared  at  him.  He  saw  the  trim,  plump  figure  of  Madame, 
like  some  trim  plump  partridge  among  a  flock  of  barn-yard 
fowls.  And  he  depended  on  her  presence.  Without  her, 
he  would  have  felt  too  horribly  uncomfortable  on  that  raw 
hillside.  She  and  he  were  in  some  way  allied.  But  these 
others,  how  alien  and  uncouth  he  felt  them.  Impressed  by 
their  fine  clothes,  the  English  working-classes  were  none  the 
less  barbarians  to  him,  uncivilized:  just  as  he  was  to  them 
an  uncivilized  animal.  Uncouth,  they  seemed  to  him,  all 
raw  angles  and  harshness,  like  their  own  weather.  Not 
that  he  thought  about  them.  But  he  felt  it  in  his  flesh,  the 
harshness  and  discomfort  of  them.  And  Alvina  was  one  of 
them.  As  she  stood  there  by  the  grave,  pale  and  pinched 
and  reserved  looking,  she  was  of  a  piece  with  the  hideous 
cold  grey  discomfort  of  the  whole  scene.  Never  had  any- 
thing been  more  uncongenial  to  him.  He  was  dying  to  get 
away  —  to  clear  out.  That  was  all  he  wanted.  Only  some 
southern  obstinacy  made  him  watch,  from  the  duskiness  of 
his  face,  the  pale,  reserved  girl  at  the  grave.  Perhaps  he 
even  disliked  her,  at  that  time.  But  he  watched  in  his  dis- 
like. 

When  the  ceremony  was  over,  and  the  mourners  turned 
away  to  go  back  to  the  cabs,  Madame  pressed  forward  to 
Alvina. 

"  I  shall  say  good-bye  now,  Miss  Houghton.  We  must 
go  to  the  station  for  the  train.  And  thank  you,  thank  you. 
Good-bye." 

"  But  — "  Alvina  looked  round. 

"  Ciccio  is  there.     I  see  him.     We  must  catch  the  train." 

"  Oh  but  —  won't  you  drive?  Won't  you  ask  Ciccio  to 
drive  with  you  in  the  cab?  Where  is  he?  " 

Madame  pointed  him  out  as  he  hung  back  among  the 
graves,  his  black  hat  cocked  a  little  on  one  side.  .  He  was 


ALVINA  BECOMES  ALLAYE  213 

watching.  Alvina  broke  away  from  her  cousin,  and  went  to 
him. 

"  Madame  is  going  to  drive  to  the  station,"  she  said.  "  She 
wants  you  to  get  in  with  her." 

He  looked  round  at  the  cabs. 

"  All  right,"  he  said,  and  he  picked  his  way  across  the 
graves  to  Madame,  following  Alvina. 

"  So,  we  go  together  in  the  cab,"  said  Madame  to  him. 
Then :  "  Good-bye,  my  dear  Miss  Houghton.  Perhaps  we 
shall  meet  once  more.  Who  knows?  My  heart  is  with  you, 
my  dear."  She  put  her  arms  round  Alvina  and  kissed  her, 
a  little  theatrically.  The  cousin  looked  on,  very  much  aloof. 
Ciccio  stood  by. 

"  Come  then,  Ciccio,"  said  Madame. 

"Good-bye,"  said  Alvina  to  him.  "You'll  come  again, 
won't  you?  "  She  looked  at  him  from  her  strained,  pale 
face. 

"  All  right,"  he  said,  shaking  her  hand  loosely.  It  sounded 
hopelessly  indefinite. 

"You  will  come,  won't  you?  "  she  repeated,  staring  at  him 
with  strained,  unseeing  blue  eyes. 

"  All  right,"  he  said,  ducking  and  turning  away. 

She  stood  quite  still  for  a  moment,  quite  lost.  Then  she 
went  on  with  her  cousin  to  her  cab,  home  to  the  funeral  tea. 

"  Good-bye !  "  Madame  fluttered  a  black-edged  handker- 
chief. But  Ciccio,  most  uncomfortable  in  his  four-wheeler, 
kept  hidden. 

The  funeral  tea,  with  its  baked  meats  and  sweets,  was  a 
terrible  affair.  But  it  came  to  an  end,  as  everything  comes 
to  an  end,  and  Miss  Pinnegar  and  Alvina  were  left  alone  in 
the  emptiness  of  Manchester  House. 

"  If  you  weren't  here,  Miss  Pinnegar,  I  should  be  quite 
by  myself,"  said  Alvina,  blanched  and  strained. 

"Yes.  And  so  should  I  without  you,"  said  Miss  Pinnegar 
doggedly.  They  looked  at  each  other.  And  that  night  both 
slept  in  Miss  Pinnegar's  bed,  out  of  sheer  terror  of  the 
empty  house. 

During  the  days  following  the  funeral,  no  one  could  have 
been  more  tiresome  than  Alvina.  James  had  left  everything 
to  his  daughter,  excepting  some  rights  in  the  work-shop, 
which  were  Miss  Pinnegar's.  But  the  question  was,  how 


214  THE  LOST  GIRL 

much  did  "  everything  "  amount  to  ?  There  was  something 
less  than  a  hundred  pounds  in  the  bank.  There  was  a  mort- 
gage on  Manchester  House.  There  were  substantial  bills 
owing  on  account  of  the  Endeavour.  Alvina  had  about  a 
hundred  pounds  left  from  the  insurance  money,  when  all 
funeral  expenses  were  paid.  Of  that  she  was  sure,  and  of 
nothing  else. 

For  the  rest,  she  was  almost  driven  mad  by  people  com- 
ing to  talk  to  her.  The  lawyer  came,  the  clergyman  came, 
her  cousin  came,  the  old,  stout,  prosperous  tradesmen  of 
Woodhouse  came,  Mr.  May  came,  Miss  Pinnegar  came.  And 
they  all  had  schemes,  and  they  all  had  advice.  The  chief 
plan  was  that  the  theatre  should  be  sold  up:  and  that  Man- 
chester House  should  be  sold,  reserving  a  lease  on  the  top 
floor,  where  Miss  Pinnegar's  work-rooms  were:  that  Miss 
Pinnegar  and  Alvina  should  move  into  a  small  house.  Miss 
Pinnegar  keeping  the  work-room,  Alvina  giving  music-lessons : 
that  the  two  women  should  be  partners  in  the  work-shop. 

There  were  other  plans,  of  course.  There  was  a  faction 
against  the  chapel  faction,  which  favoured  the  plan  sketched 
out  above.  The  theatre  faction,  including  Mr.  May  and 
some  of  the  more  florid  tradesmen,  favoured  the  risking  of 
everything  in  the  Endeavour.  Alvina  was  to  be  the  proprie- 
tress of  the  Endeavour,  she  was  to  run  it  on  some  sort  of 
successful  lines,  and  abandon  all  other  enterprise.  Minor 
plans  included  the  election  of  Alvina  to  the  post  of  parish 
nurse,  at  six  pounds  a  month:  a  small  private  school;  a 
small  haberdashery  shop;  and  a  position  in  the  office  of  her 
cousin's  Knarborough  business.  To  one  and  all  Alvina 
answered  with  a  tantalizing:  "  I  don't  know  what  I'm  going 
to  do.  I  don't  know.  I  can't  say  yet.  I  shall  see.  I  shall 
see."  Till  one  and  all  became  angry  with  her.  They 
were  all  so  benevolent,  and  all  so  sure  that  they  were  pro- 
posing the  very  best  thing  she  could  do.  And  they  were 
all  nettled,  even  indignant  that  she  did  not  jump  at  their 
proposals.  She  listened  to  them  all.  She  even  invited  their 
advice.  Continually  she  said:  "Well,  what  do  you  think  of 
it?  "  And  she  repeated  the  chapel  plan  to  the  theatre 
group,  the  theatre  plan  to  the  chapel  party,  the  nursing  to 
the  pianoforte  proposers,  the  haberdashery  shop  to  the  pri- 
vate school  advocates.  "Tell  me  what  you  think,"  she  said 
repeatedly.  And  they  all  told  her  they  thought  their  plan 


ALVINA  BECOMES  ALLAYE  215 

was  best.  And  bit  by  bit  she  told  every  advocate  the  pro- 
posal of  every  other  advocate  "  Well,  Lawyer  Beeby 
thinks — "  and  "Well  now,  Mr.  Clay,  the  minister,  ad- 
vises — "  and  so  on  and  so  on,  till  it  was  all  buzzing  through 
thirty  benevolent  and  officious  heads.  And  thirty  benevo- 
lently-officious wills  were  striving  to  plant  each  one  its  own 
particular  scheme  of  benevolence.  And  Alvina,  nai've  and 
pathetic,  egged  them  all  on  in  their  strife,  without  even 
knowing  what  she  was  doing.  One  thing  only  was  certain. 
Some  obstinate  will  in  her  own  self  absolutely  refused  to 
have  her  mind  made  up.  She  would  not  have  her  mind 
made  up  for  her,  and  she  would  not  make  it  up  for  herself. 
And  so  everybody  began  to  say  "  I'm  getting  tired  of  her. 
You  talk  to  her,  and  you  get  no  forrarder.  She  slips  off  to 
something  else.  I'm  not  going  to  bother  with  her  any  more." 
In  truth,  Woodhouse  was  in  a  fever,  for  three  weeks  or  more, 
arranging  Alvina's  unarrangeable  future  for  her.  Offers  of 
charity  were  innumerable  —  for  three  weeks. 

Meanwhile,  the  lawyer  went  on  with  the  proving  of  the  will 
and  the  drawing  up  of  a  final  account  of  James's  property; 
Mr.  May  went  on  with  the  Endeavour,  though  Alvina  did 
not  go  down  to  play;  Miss  Pinnegar  went  on  with  the  work- 
girls:  and  Alvina  went  on  unmaking  her  mind. 

Ciccio  did  not  come  during  the  first  week.  Alvina  had  a 
post-card  from  Madame,  from  Cheshire:  rather  far  off.  But 
such  was  the  buzz  and  excitement  over  her  material  future, 
such  a  fever  was  worked  up  round  about  her  that  Alvina, 
the  petty-propertied  heroine  of  the  moment,  was  quite  car- 
ried away  in  a  storm  of  schemes  and  benevolent  suggestions. 
She  answered  Madame's  post-card,  but  did  not  give  much 
thought  to  the  Natcha-Kee-Tawaras.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  she  was  enjoying  a  real  moment  of  importance,  there 
at  the  centre  of  Woodhouse's  rather  domineering  benevo- 
lence: a  benevolence  which  she  unconsciously,  but  system- 
atically frustrated.  All  this  scheming  for  selling  out  and 
making  reservations  and  hanging  on  and  fixing  prices  and 
getting  private  bids  for  Manchester  House  and  for  the  En- 
deavour, the  excitement  of  forming  a  Limited  Company  to 
run  the  Endeavour,  of  seeing  a  lawyer  about  the  sale  of 
Manchester  House  and  the  auctioneer  about  the  sale  of  the 
furniture,  of  receiving  men  who  wanted  to  pick  up  the 
machines  upstairs  cheap,  and  of  keeping  everything  dang- 


216  THE  LOST  GIRL 

ling,  deciding  nothing,  putting  everything  off  till  she  had 
seen  somebody  else,  this  for  the  moment  fascinated  her,  went 
to  her  head.  It  was  not  until  the  second  week  had  passed 
that  her  excitement  began  to  merge  into  irritation,  and  not 
until  the  third  week  had  gone  by  that  she  began  to  feel  her- 
self entangled  in  an  asphyxiating  web  of  indecision,  and  her 
heart  began  to  sing  because  Ciccio  had  never  turned  up.  Now 
she  would  have  given  anything  to  see  the  Natcha-Kee- 
Tawaras  again.  But  she  did  not  know  where  they  were. 
Now  she  began  to  loathe  the  excitement  of  her  property: 
doubtfully  hers,  every  stick  of  it.  Now  she  would  give  any- 
thing to  get  away  from  Woodhouse,  from  the  horrible  buzz 
and  entanglement  of  her  sordid  affairs.  Now  again  her  wild 
recklessness  came  over  her. 

She  suddenly  said  she  was  going  away  somewhere:  she 
would  not  say  where.  She  cashed  all  the  money  she  could: 
a  hundred-and-twenty-five  pounds.  She  took  the  train  to 
Cheshire,  to  the  last  address  of  the  Natcha-Kee-Tawaras : 
she  followed  them  to  Stockport:  and  back  to  Chinley:  and 
there  she  was  stuck  for  the  night.  Next  day  she  dashed 
back  almost  to  Woodhouse,  and  swerved  round  to  Sheffield. 
There,  in  that  black  town,  thank  heaven,  she  saw  their  an- 
nouncement on  the  wall.  She  took  a  taxi  to  their  theatre, 
and  then  on  to  their  lodgings.  The  first  thing  she  saw  was 
Louis,  in  his  shirt  sleeves,  on  the  landing  above. 

She  laughed  with  excitement  and  pleasure.  She  seemed 
another  woman.  Madame  looked  up,  almost  annoyed,  when 
she  entered. 

"  I  couldn't  keep  away  from  you,  Madame,"  she  cried. 

"  Evidently,"  said  Madame. 

Madame  was  darning  socks  for  the  young  men.  She  was 
a  wonderful  mother  for  them,  sewed  for  them,  cooked  for 
them,  looked  after  them  most  carefully.  Not  many  minutes 
was  Madame  idle. 

"  Do  you  mind?  "  said  Alvina. 

Madame  darned  for  some  moments  without  answering. 

"And  how  is  everything  at  Woodhouse?  "  she  asked. 

"I  couldn't  bear  it  any  longer.  I  couldn't  bear  it.  So 
I  collected  all  the  money  I  could,  and  ran  away.  Nobody 
knows  where  I  am." 

Madame  looked  up  with  bright,  black,  censorious  eyes,  at 
the  flushed  girl  opposite.  Alvina  had  a  certain  strangeness 


ALVINA  BECOMES  ALLAYE  217 

and  brightness,  which  Madame  did  not  know,  and  a  frankness 
which  the  Frenchwoman  mistrusted,  but  found  disarming. 

"And  all  the  business,  the  will  and  all?  "  said  Madame. 

"They're  still  fussing  about  it." 

"And  there  is  some  money?  " 

"  I  have  got  a  hundred  pounds  here,"  laughed  Alvina. 
"  What  there  will  be  when  everything  is  settled,  I  don't  know. 
But  not  very  much,  I'm  sure  of  that." 

"  How  much  do  you  think?     A  thousand  pounds?  " 

"  Oh,  it's  just  possible,  you  know.  But  it's  just  as  likely 
there  won't  be  another  penny  — " 

Madame  nodded  slowly,  as  always  when  she  did  her  cal- 
culations. 

"And  if  there  is  nothing,  what  do  you  intend?"  said 
Madame. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Alvina  brightly. 

"And  if  there  is  something?  " 

"  I  don't  know  either.  But  I  thought,  if  you  would  let 
me  play  for  you,  I  could  keep  myself  for  some  time  with  my 
own  money.  You  said  perhaps  I  might  be  with  the  Natcha- 
Kee-Tawaras.  I  wish  you  would  let  me." 

Madame  bent  her  head  so  that  nothing  showed  but  the 
bright  black  folds  of  her  hair.  Then  she  looked  up,  with  a 
slow,  subtle,  rather  jeering  smile. 

"Ciccio  didn't  come  to  see  you,  hein?  " 

"  No,"  said  Alvina.     "  Yet  he  promised." 

Again  Madame  smiled  sardonically. 

"  Do  you  call  it  a  promise?  "  she  said.  "  You  are  easy  to 
be  satisfied  with  a  word.  A  hundred  pounds?  No  more?  " 

"  A  hundred  and  twenty  — " 

"Where  is  it?" 

"  In  my  bag  at  the  station  —  in  notes.  And  I've  got  a 
little  here—  Alvina  opened  her  purse,  and  took  out  some 
little  gold  and  silver. 

"At  the  station!  "  exclaimed  Madame,  smiling  grimly. 
"  Then  perhaps  you  have  nothing." 

"  Oh,  I  think  it's  quite  safe,  don't  you—?  " 

"Yes  —  maybe  —  since  it  is  England.  And  you  think  a 
hundred  and  twenty  pounds  is  enough?  " 

"What   for?" 

"  To  satisfy  Ciccio." 

"  I  wasn't  thinking  of  him,"  cried  Alvina. 


218  THE  LOST  GIRL 

"No?"  said  Madame  ironically.  "I  can  propose  it  to 
him.  Wait  one  moment."  She  went  to  the  door  and  called 
Ciccio. 

He  entered,  looking  not  very  good-tempered. 

"Be  so  good,  my  dear,"  said  Madame  to  him,  "to  go  to 
the  station  and  fetch  Miss  Houghton's  little  bag.  You  have 
got  the  ticket,  have  you?  "  Alvina  handed  the  luggage  ticket 
to  Madame.  "Midland  Railway,"  said  Madame.  "And, 
Ciccio,  you  are  listening — ?  Mind!  There  is  a  hundred 
and  twenty  pounds  of  Miss  Houghton's  money  in  the  bag. 
You  hear?  Mind  it  is  not  lost." 

"  It's  all  I  have,"  said  Alvina. 

"  For  the  time,  for  the  time  —  till  the  will  is  proved,  it  is 
all  the  cash  she  has.  So  mind  doubly.  You  hear?  " 

"  All  right,"  said  Ciccio. 

"  Tell  him  what  sort  of  a  bag,  Miss  Houghton,"  said 
Madame. 

Alvina  told  him.  He  ducked  and  went.  Madame  listened 
for  his  final  departure.  Then  she  nodded  sagely  at  Alvina. 

"  Take  off  your  hat  and  coat,  my  dear.  Soon  we  will  have 
tea  —  when  Cic'  returns.  Let  him  think,  let  him  think  what 
he  likes.  So  much  money  is  certain,  perhaps  there  will  be 
more.  Let  him  think.  It  will  make  all  the  difference  that 
there  is  so  much  cash  —  yes,  so  much  — " 

"  But  would  it  really  make  a  difference  to  him?  "  cried 
Alvina. 

"  Oh  my  dear!  "  exclaimed  Madame.  "  Why  should  it  not? 
We  are  on  earth,  where  we  must  eat.  We  are  not  in  Paradise. 
If  it  were  a  thousand  pounds,  then  he  would  want  very  badly 
to  marry  you.  But  a  hundred  and  twenty  is  better  than  a 
blow  to  the  eye,  eh?  Why  sure!  " 

"It's  dreadful,  though—!  "  said  Alvina. 

"  Oh  la-la !  Dreadful !  If  it  was  Max,  who  is  sentimental, 
then  no,  the  money  is  nothing.  But  all  the  others  —  why, 
you  see,  they  are  men,  and  they  know  which  side  to  butter 
their  bread.  Men  are  like  cats,  my  dear,  they  don't  like  their 
bread  without  butter.  Why  should  they?  Nor  do  I,  nor 
do  I." 

"  Can  I  help  with  the  darning?  "  said  Alvina. 

"Hein?  I  shall  give  you  Ciccio's  socks,  yes?  He  pushes 
holes  in  the  toes  —  you  see?  "  Madame  poked  two  fingers 


ALVINA  BECOMES  ALLAYE  219 

through  the  hole  in  the  toe  of  a  red-and-hlack  sock,  and  smiled 
a  little  maliciously  at  Alvina. 

"  I  don't  mind  which  sock  I  darn,"  she  said. 

"No?  You  don't?  Well  then,  I  give  you  another.  But 
if  you  like  I  will  speak  to  him  — " 

"What  to  say?  "  asked  Alvina. 

"  To  say  that  you  have  so  much  money,  and  hope  to  have 
more.  And  that  you  like  him  —  Yes?  Am  I  right?  You 
like  him  very  much?  — hein?  Is  it  so?  " 

"And  then  what?  "  said  Alvina. 

"That  he  should  tell  me  if  he  should  like  to  marry  you 
also  —  quite  simply.  What?  Yes?" 

"  No,"  said  Alvina.     "  Don't  say  anything  —  not  yet." 

"He?  Not  yet?  Not  yet.  All  right,  not  yet  then.  You 
will  see—" 

Alvina  sat  darning  the  sock  and  smiling  at  her  own  shame- 
lessness.  The  point  that  amused  her  most  of  all  was  the 
fact  that  she  was  not  by  any  means  sure  she  wanted  to 
marry  him.  There  was  Madame  spinning  her  web  like  a 
plump  prolific  black  spider.  There  was  Ciccio,  the  unrestful 
fly.  And  there  was  herself,  who  didn't  know  in  the  least 
what  she  was  doing.  There  sat  two  of  them,  Madame  and 
herself,  darning  socks  in  a  stuffy  little  bedroom  with  a  gas 
fire,  as  if  they  had  been  born  to  it.  And  after  all,  Woodhouse 
wasn't  fifty  miles  away. 

Madame  went  downstairs  to  get  tea  ready.  Wherever  she 
was,  she  superintended  the  cooking  and  trie  preparation  of 
meals  for  her  young  men,  scrupulous  and  quick.  She  called 
Alvina  downstairs.  Ciccio  came  in  with  the  bag. 

"See,  my  dear,  that  your  money  is  safe,"  said  Madame. 

Alvina  unfastened  her  bag  and  counted  the  crisp  white 
notes. 

"  And  now,"  said  Madame,  "  I  shall  lock  it  in  my  little 
bank,  yes,  where  it  will  be  safe.  And  I  shall  give  you  a 
receipt,  which  the  young  men  will  witness." 

The  party  sat  down  to  tea,  in  the  stuffy  sitting-room. 

"Now,  boys,"  said  Madame,  "what  do  you  say?  Shall 
Miss  Houghton  join  the  Natcha-Kee-Tawaras?  Shall  she  be 
our  pianist?  " 

The  eyes  of  the  four  young  men  rested  on  Alvina.  Max, 
as  being  the  responsible  party,  looked  business-like.  Louia 


220  THE  LOST  GIRL 

was  tender,  Geoffrey  round-eyed  and  inquisitive,  Ciccio  furtive. 

"With  great  pleasure,"  said  Max.  "But  can  the  Natcha- 
Kee-Tawaras  afford  to  pay  a  pianist  for  themselves?  " 

"  No,"  said  Madame.  "  No.  I  think  not.  Miss  Houghton 
will  come  for  one  month,  to  prove,  and  in  that  time  she  shall 
pay  for  herself.  Yes?  So  she  fancies  it." 

"  Can  we  pay  her  expenses?  "  said  Max. 

"No,"  said  Alvina.  "Let  me  pay  everything  for  myself, 
for  a  month.  I  should  like  to  be  with  you,  awfully  — " 

She  looked  across  with  a  look  half  mischievous,  half  be- 
seeching at  the  erect  Max.  He  bowed  as  he  sat  at  table. 

"  I  think  we  shall  all  be  honoured,"  he  said. 

"  Certainly,"  said  Louis,  bowing  also  over  his  tea-cup. 

Geoffrey  inclined  his  head,  and  Ciccio  lowered  his  eye- 
lashes in  indication  of  agreement. 

"  Now  then,"  said  Madame  briskly,  "  we  are  all  agreed. 
Tonight  we  will  have  a  bottle  of  wine  on  it.  Yes,  gentlemen? 
What  d'you  say?  Chianti  — hein?  " 

They  all  bowed  above  the  table. 

"And  Miss  Houghton  shall  have  her  professional  name, 
eh?  Because  we  cannot  say  Miss  Houghton  —  what?  " 

"  Do  call  me  Alvina,"  said  Alvina. 

"Alvina  —  Al-vy-na!  No,  excuse  me,  my  dear,  I  don't  like 
it.  I  don't  like  this  '  vy '  sound.  Tonight  we  shall  find  a 
name." 

After  tea  they  inquired  for  a  room  for  Alvina.  There  was 
none  in  the  house.  But  two  doors  away  was  another  decent 
lodging-house,  where  a  bedroom  on  the  top  floor  was  found 
for  her. 

"  I  think  you  are  very  well  here,"  said  Madame. 

"  Quite  nice,"  said  Alvina,  looking  round  the  hideous  little 
room,  and  remembering  her  other  term  of  probation,  as  a 
maternity  nurse. 

She  dressed  as  attractively  as  possible,  in  her  new  dress  of 
black  voile,  and  imitating  Madame,  she  put  four  jewelled 
rings  on  her  fingers.  As  a  rule  she  only  wore  the  mourning- 
ring  of  black  enamel  and  diamond,  which  had  been  always 
on  Miss  Frost's  finger.  Now  she  left  off  this,  and  took  four 
diamond  rings,  and  one  good  sapphire.  She  looked  at  herself 
in  her  mirror  as  she  had  never  done  before,  really  interested 
in  the  effect  she  made.  And  in  her  dress  she  pinned  a  valu- 
able old  ruby  brooch. 


ALVINA  BECOMES  ALLAYE  221 

Then  she  went  down  to  Madame's  house.  Madame  eyed 
her  shrewdly,  with  just  a  touch  of  jealousy:  the  eternal 
jealousy  that  must  exist  between  the  plump,  pale  partridge 
of  a  Frenchwoman,  whose  black  hair  is  so  glossy  and  tidy, 
whose  black  eyes  are  so  acute,  whose  black  dress  is  so  neat 
and  chic,  and  the  rather  thin  Englishwoman  in  soft  voile,  with 
soft,  rather  loose  brown  hair  and  demure,  blue-grey  eyes. 

"  Oh  —  a  difference  —  what  a  difference !  When  you  have 
a  little  more  flesh  —  then — "  Madame  made  a  slight  click 
with  her  tongue.  "  What  a  good  brooch,  eh?  "  Madame 
fingered  the  brooch.  "  Old  paste  —  old  paste  —  antique  — ' 

"No,"  said  Alvina.  "They  are  real  rubies.  It  was  my 
great-grandmother's." 

"Do  you  mean  it?     Real?     Are  you  sure — " 

"  I  think  I'm  quite  sure." 

Madame  scrutinized  the  jewels  with  a  fine  eye. 

"  Hm !  "  she  said.  And  Alvina  did  not  know  whether  she 
was  sceptical,  or  jealous,  or  admiring,  or  really  impressed. 

"  And  the  diamonds  are  real  ?  "  said  Madame,  making 
Alvina  hold  up  her  hands. 

"  I've  always  understood  so,"  said  Alvina. 

Madame  scrutinized,  and  slowly  nodded  her  head.  Then 
she  looked  into  Alvina's  eyes,  really  a  little  jealous. 

"Another  four  thousand  francs  there,"  she  said,  nodding 
sagely. 

"Really!  "said  Alvina. 

"  For  sure.     It's  enough  —  it's  enough  — " 

And  there  was  a  silence  between  the  two  women. 

The  young  men  had  been  out  shopping  for  the  supper. 
Louis,  who  knew  where  to  find  French  and  German  stuff, 
came  in  with  bundles,  Ciccio  returned  with  a  couple  of  flasks, 
Geoffrey  with  sundry  moist  papers  of  edibles.  Alvina  helped 
Madame  to  put  the  anchovies  and  sardines  and  tunny  and 
ham  and  salami  on  various  plates,  she  broke  off  a  bit  of 
fern  from  one  of  the  flower-pots,  to  stick  in  the  pork -pie,  she 
set  the  table  with  its  ugly  knives  and  forks  and  glasses.  All 
the  time  her  rings  sparkled,  her  red  brooch  sent  out  beams, 
she  laughed  and  was  gay,  she  was  quick,  and  she  flattered 
Madame  by  being  very  deferential  to  her.  Whether  she 
was  herself  or  not,  in  the  hideous,  common,  stuffy  sitting- 
room  of  the  lodging-house  she  did  not  know  or  care.  But 
she  felt  excited  and  gay.  She  knew  the  young  men  were 


222  THE  LOST  GIRL 

watching  her.  Max  gave  his  assistance  wherever  possible. 
Geoffrey  watched  her  rings,  half  spell-bound.  But  Alvina  was 
concerned  only  to  flatter  the  plump,  white,  soft  vanity  of 
Madame.  She  carefully  chose  for  Madame  the  finest  plate, 
the  clearest  glass,  the  whitest-hafted  knife,  the  most  delicate 
fork.  All  of  which  Madame  saw,  with  acute  eyes. 

At  the  theatre  the  same : .  Alvina  played  for  Kishwegin, 
only  for  Kishwegin.  And  Madame  had  the  time  of  her  life. 

"  You  know,  my  dear,"  she  said  afterward  to  Alvina,  "  I 
understand  sympathy  in  music.  Music  goes  straight  to 
the  heart."  And  she  kissed  Alvina  on  both  cheeks,  throwing 
her  arms  round  her  neck  dramatically. 

"  I'm  so  glad,"  said  the  wily  Alvina. 

And  the  young  men  stirred  uneasily,  and  smiled  furtively. 

They  hurried  home  to  the  famous  supper.  Madame  sat 
at  one  end  of  the  table,  Alvina  at  the  other.  Madame  had 
Max  and  Louis  by  her  side,  Alvina  had  Ciccio  and  Geoffrey. 
Ciccio  was  on  Alvina's  right  hand:  a  delicate  hint. 

They  began  with  hors  d'oeuvres  and  tumblers  three  parts 
full  of  Chianti.  Alvina  wanted  to  water  her  wine,  but  was 
not  allowed  to  insult  the  sacred  liquid.  There  was  a  spirit 
of  great  liveliness  and  conviviality.  Madame  became  paler, 
her  eyes  blacker,  with  the  wine  she  drank,  her  voice  became 
a  little  raucous. 

"Tonight,"  she  said,  "the  Natcha-Kee-Tawaras  make  their 
feast  of  affiliation.  The  white  daughter  has  entered  the  tribe 
of  the  Hirondelles,  swallows  that  pass  from  land  to  land, 
and  build  their  nests  between  roof  and  wall.  A  new  swallow, 
a  new  Huron  from  the  tents  of  the  pale-face,  from  the  lodges 
of  the  north,  from  the  tribe  of  the  Yenghees."  Madame's  black 
eyes  glared  with  a  kind  of  wild  triumph  down  the  table  at 
Alvina.  "  Nameless,  without  having  a  name,  comes  the 
maiden  with  the  red  jewels,  dark-hearted,  with  the  red  beams. 
Wine  from  the  pale-face  shadows,  drunken  wine  for  Kish- 
wegin, strange  wine  for  the  braves  in  their  nostrils,  Vaali,  a 
vous." 

Madame  lifted  her  glass. 

"Vaali,  drink  to  her  — Boire  a  elle— "  She  thrust  her 
glass  forwards  in  the  air.  The  young  men  thrust  their  glasses 
up  towards  Alvina,  in  a  cluster.  She  could  see  their  mouths 
all  smiling,  their  teeth  white  as  they  cried  in  their  throats: 
"Vaali!  Vaali!  Boire  a  vous." 


ALVINA  BECOMES  ALLAYE  223 

Ciccio  was  near  to  her.  Under  the  table  he  laid  his  hand 
on  her  knee.  Quickly  she  put  forward  her  hand  to  protect 
herself.  He  took  her  hand,  and  looked  at  her  along  the  glass 
as  he  drank.  She  saw  his  throat  move  as  the  wine  went  down 
it.  He  put  down  his  glass,  still  watching  her. 

"  Vaali !  "  he  said,  in  his  throat.  Then  across  the  table 
"He,  Gigi  —  Viale!  Le  Petit  Chemin!  Comment?  Me 
prends-tu?  L'allee — " 

There  came  a  great  burst  of  laughter  from  Louis. 

"  It  is  good,  it  is  good !  "  he  cried.  "  Oh  Madame !  Viale, 
it  is  Italian  for  the  little  way,  the  alley.  That  is  too  rich." 

Max  went  off  into  a  high  and  ribald  laugh. 

"L'allee  italienne!  "  he  said,  and  shouted  with  laughter. 

"  Alley  or  avenue,  what  does  it  matter,"  cried  Madame  in 
French,  "  so  long  as  it  is  a  good  journey." 

Here  Geoffrey  at  last  saw  the  joke.  With  a  strange  de- 
termined flourish  he  rilled  his  glass,  cocking  up  his  elbow. 

"  A  toi,  Cic' —  et  bon  voyage !  "  he  said,  and  then  he  tilted 
up  his  chin  and  swallowed  in  great  throatfuls. 

"Certainly!  Certainly!"  cried  Madame.  "To  thy  good 
journey,  my  Ciccio,  for  thou  art  not  a  great  traveller  — " 

"  Na,  pour  c.a,  y'a  plus  d'une  voie,"  said  Geoffrey. 

During  this  passage  in  French  Alvina  sat  with  very  bright 
eyes  looking  from  one  to  another,  and  not  understanding.  But 
she  knew  it  was  something  improper,  on  her  account.  Her 
eyes  had  a  bright,  slightly-bewildered  look  as  she  turned  from 
one  face  to  another.  Cicio  had  let  go  her  hand,  and  was 
wiping  his  lips  with  his  fingers.  He  too  was  a  little  self- 
conscious. 

"Assez  de  cette  eternelle  voix  italienne,"  said  Madame. 
"  Courage,  courage  au  chemin  d'Angleterre." 

"  Assez  de  cette  eternelle  voix  rauque,"  said  Ciccio,  looking 
round.  Madame  suddenly  pulled  herself  together. 

"  They  will  not  have  my  name.  They  will  call  you  Allay!  " 
she  said  to  Alvina.  "  Is  it  good?  Will  it  do?  " 

"  Quite,"  said  Alvina. 

And  she  could  not  understand  why  Gigi,  and  then  the  others 
after  him,  went  off  into  a  shout  of  laughter.  She  kept  look- 
ing round  with  bright,  puzzled  eyes.  Her  face  was  slightly 
flushed  and  tender  looking,  she  looked  naive,  young. 

"Then  you  will  become  one  of  the  tribe  of  Natcha-Kee- 
Tawara,  of  the  name  Allaye?  Yes?  " 


224  THE  LOST  GIRL 

"Yes,"  said  Alvina. 

"And  obey  the  strict  rules  of  the  tribe.     Do  you  agree?  " 

"Yes." 

"Then  listen."  Madame  primmed  and  preened  herself 
like  a  black  pigeon,  and  darted  glances  out  of  her  black  eyes. 

"  We  are  one  tribe,  one  nation  —  say  it." 

"  We  are  one  tribe,  one  nation,"  repeated  Alvina. 

"  Say  all,"  cried  Madame. 

"  We  are  one  tribe,  one  nation  — "  they  shouted,  with  vary- 
ing accent. 

"  Good !  "  said  Madame.  "  And  no  nation  do  we  know  but 
the  nation  of  the  Hirondelles " 

"  No  nation  do  we  know  but  the  nation  of  the  Hirondelles," 
came  the  ragged  chant  of  strong  male  voices,  resonant  and 
gay  with  mockery. 

"Hurons  —  Hirondelles,  means  swallows,"  said  Madame. 

"Yes,  I  know,"  said  Alvina. 

"  So !  you  know !  Well,  then !  We  know  no  nation  but  the 
Hirondelles.  WE  HAVE  NO  LAW  BUT  HURON  LAW!  " 

"  We  have  no  law  but  Huron  law !  "  sang  the  response,  in  a 
deep,  sardonic  chant. 

"  WE  HAVE  NO  LAWGIVER  EXCEPT  KISHWEGIN." 

"  We  have  no  lawgiver  except  Kishwegin,"  they  sang 
sonorous. 

"  WE  HAVE  NO  HOME  BUT  THE  TENT  OF  KISHWEGIN." 

"  We  have  no  home  but  the  tent  of  Kishwegin." 
"THERE   is   NO    GOOD    BUT   THE    GOOD    OF   NATCHA-KEE- 
TAWARA." 

"  There  is  no  good  but  the  good  of  Natcha-Kee-Tawara." 

"  WE  ARE  THE  HIRONDELLES." 

"  We  are  the  Hirondelles."      , 

"  WE  ARE  KISHWEGIN." 

"We  are  Kishwegin." 

"  WE  ARE  MONDAGUA." 
"  We  are  Mondagua  — " 

"WE  ARE  ATONQUOIS " 

"  We  are  Atonquois  — " 

"  WE  ARE  PACOHUILA ' 

"  We  are  Pacohuila  — " 

"  WE  ARE  WALGATCHKA  — " 

"We  are  Walgatchka— " 

"  WE  ARE  ALLAYE  — " 


ALVINA  BECOMES  ALLAYE  225 

"We  are  Allaye  — " 

"  La  musica !  Pacohuila,  la  musica !  "  cried  Madame, 
starting  to  her  feet  and  sounding  frenzied. 

Ciccio  got  up  quickly  and  took  his  mandoline  from  its  case. 

"A  —  A  —  Ai  —  Aii  —  eee  —  ya  — "  began  Madame,  with 
a  long,  faint  wail.  And  on  the  wailing  mandoline  the  music 
started.  She  began  to  dance  a  slight  but  intense  dance.  Then 
she  waved  for  a  partner,  and  set  up  a  tarantella  wail.  Louis 
threw  off  his  coat  and  sprang  to  tarantella  attention,  Ciccio 
rang  out  the  peculiar  tarantella,  and  Madame  and  Louis 
danced  in  the  tight  space. 

"Brava  —  Brava!  "  cried  the  others,  when  Madame  sank 
into  her  place.  And  they  crowded  forward  to  kiss  her  hand. 
One  after  the  other,  they  kissed  her  fingers,  whilst  she  laid 
her  left  hand  languidly  on  the  head  of  one  man  after  another, 
as  she  sat  slightly  panting.  Ciccio  however  did  not  come  up, 
but  sat  faintly  twanging  the  mandoline.  Nor  did  Alvina  leave 
her  place. 

"Pacohuila!"  cried  Madame,  with  an  imperious  gesture. 
"Allaye!  Come—" 

Ciccio  laid  down  his  mandoline  and  went  to  kiss  the  fingers 
of  Kishwegin.  Alvina  also  went  forward.  Madame  held  out 
her  hand.  Alvina  kissed  it.  Madame  laid  her  hand  on  the 
head  of  Alvina. 

"This  is  the  squaw  Allaye,  this  is  the  daughter  of  Kish- 
wegin," she  said,  in  her  Tawara  manner. 

"And  where  is  the  brave  of  Allaye,  where  is  the  arm  that 
upholds  the  daughter  of  Kishwegin,  which  of  the  Swallows 
spreads  his  wings  over  the  gentle  head  of  the  new  one!  " 

"  Pacohuila !  "  said  Louis. 

"  Pacohuila !     Pacohuila !     Pacohuila !  "  said  the  others. 

"  Spread  soft  wings,  spread  dark-roofed  wings,  Pacohuila," 
said  Kishwegin,  and  Ciccio,  in  his  shirt-sleeves  solemnly  spread 
his  arms. 

"  Stoop,  stoop,  Allaye,  beneath  the  wings  of  Pacohuila,"  said 
Kishwegin,  faintly  pressing  Alvina  on  the  shoulder. 

Alvina  stooped  and  crouched  under  the  right  arm  of  Paco- 
huila. 

"  Has  the  bird  flown  home?  "  chanted  Kishwegin,  to  one  of 
the  strains  of  their  music. 

"The  bird  is  home — "  chanted  the  men. 

"Is  the  nest  warm?  "  chanted  Kishwegin. 


226  THE  LOST  GIRL 

"  The  nest  is  warm." 

"  Does  the  he-bird  stoop  — ?  " 

"  He  stoops. 

"Who  takes  Allaye?" 

"Pacohuila." 

Ciccio  gently  stooped  and  raised  Alvina  to  her  feet. 

"  C'est  ga!  "  said  Madame,  kissing  her.  "And  now,  chil- 
dren, unless  the  Sheffield  policeman  will  knock  at  our  door, 
we  must  retire  to  our  wigwams  all  — " 

Ciccio  was  watching  Alvina.  Madame  made  him  a  secret, 
imperative  gesture  that  he  should  accompany  the  young 
woman. 

"  You  have  your  key,  Allaye?  "  she  said. 

"Did  I  have  a  key?  "  said  Alvina. 

Madame  smiled  subtly  as  she  produced  a  latch-key. 

"Kishwegin  must  open  your  doors  for  you  all,"  she  said. 
Then,  with  a  slight  flourish,  she  presented  the  key  to  Ciccio. 
"  I  give  it  to  him?  Yes?  "  she  added,  with  her  subtle, 
malicious  smile. 

Ciccio,  smiling  slightly,  and  keeping  his  head  ducked,  took 
the  key.  Alvina  looked  brightly,  as  if  bewildered,  from  one 
to  another. 

"  Also  the  light !  "  said  Madame,  producing  a  pocket  flash- 
light, which  she  triumphantly  handed  to  Ciccio.  Alvina 
watched  him.  She  noticed  how  he  dropped  his  head  forward 
from  his  straight,  strong  shoulders,  how  beautiful  that  was, 
the  strong,  forward-inclining  nape  and  back  of  the  head.  It 
produced  a  kind  of  dazed  submission  in  her,  the  drugged  sense 
of  unknown  beauty. 

"  And  so  good-night,  Allaye  —  bonne  nuit,  fille  des 
Tawara."  Madame  kissed  her,  and  darted  black,  unaccount- 
able looks  at  her. 

Each  brave  also  kissed  her  hand,  with  a  profound  salute. 
Then  the  men  shook  hands  warmly  with  Ciccio,  murmuring 
to  him. 

He  did  not  put  on  his  hat  nor  his  coat,  but  ran  round  as 
he  was  to  the  neighbouring  house  with  her,  and  opened  the 
door.  She  entered,  and  he  followed,  flashing  on  the  light. 
So  she  climbed  weakly  up  the  dusty,  drab  stairs,  he  following. 
When  she  came  to  her  door,  she  turned  and  looked  at  him. 
His  face  was  scarcely  visible,  it  seemed,  and  yet  so  strange  and 


ALVINA  BECOMES  ALLAYE  227 

beautiful.  It  was  the  unknown  beauty  which  almost  killed 
her. 

"You  aren't  coming?  "  she  quavered. 

He  gave  an  odd,  half-gay,  half-mocking  twitch  of  his  thick 
dark  brows,  and  began  to  laugh  silently.  Then  he  nodded 
again,  laughing  at  her  boldly,  carelessly,  triumphantly,  like 
the  dark  Southerner  he  was.  Her  instinct  was  to  defend  her- 
self. When  suddenly  she  found  herself  in  the  dark. 

She  gasped.  And  as  she  gasped,  he  quite  gently  put  her 
inside  her  room,  and  closed  the  door,  keeping  one  arm  round 
her  all  the  time.  She  felt  his  heavy  muscular  predominance. 
So  he  took  her  in  both  arms,  powerful,  mysterious,  horrible  in 
the  pitch  dark.  Yet  the  sense  of  the  unknown  beauty  of  him 
weighed  her  down  like  some  force.  If  for  one  moment  she 
could  have  escaped  from  that  black  spell  of  his  beauty,  she 
would  have  been  free.  But  she  could  not.  He  was  awful  to 
her,  shameless  so  that  she  died  under  his  shamelessness,  his 
smiling,  progressive  shamelessness.  Yet  she  could  not  see  him 
ugly.  If  only  she  could,  for  one  second,  have  seen  him  ugly, 
he  would  not  have  killed  her  and  made  her  his  slave  as  he  did. 
But  the  spell  was  on  her,  of  his  darkness  and  unfathomed 
handsomeness.  And  he  killed  her.  He  simply  took  her  and 
assassinated  her.  How  she  suffered  no  one  can  tell.  Yet  all 
the  time,  his  lustrous  .dark  beauty,  unbearable. 

When  later  she  pressed  her  face  on  his  chest  and  cried,  he 
held  her  gently  as  if  she  was  a  child,  but  took  no  notice,  and 
she  felt  in  the  darkness  that  he  smiled.  It  was  utterly  dark, 
and  she  knew  he  smiled,  and  she  began  to  get  hysterical.  But 
he  only  kissed  her,  his  smiling  deepening  to  a  heavy  laughter, 
silent  and  invisible,  but  sensible,  as  he  carried  her  away  once 
more.  He  intended  her  to  be  his  slave,  she  knew.  And  he 
seemed  to  throw  her  down  and  suffocate  her  like  a  wave.  And 
she  could  have  fought,  if  only  the  sense  of  his  dark,  rich 
handsomeness  had  not  numbed  her  like  a  venom.  So  she 
was  suffocated  in  his  passion. 

In  the  morning  when  it  was  light  he  turned  and  looked 
at  her  from  under  his  long  black  lashes,  a  long,  steady,  cruel, 
faintly-smiling  look  from  his  tawny  eyes,  searching  her  as  if 
to  see  whether  she  were  still  alive.  And  she  looked  back  at 
him,  heavy-eyed  and  half  subjected.  He  smiled  slightly  at 
her,  rose,  and  left  her.  And  she  turned  her  face  to  the  wall, 


228  THE  LOST  GIRL 

feeling  beaten.  Yet  not  quite  beaten  to  death.  Save  for  the 
fatal  numbness  of  her  love  for  him,  she  could  still  have 
escaped  him.  But  she  lay  inert,  as  if  envenomed.  He  wanted 
to  make  her  his  slave. 

When  she  went  down  to  the  Natcha-Kee-Tawaras  for  break- 
fast she  found  them  waiting  for  her.  She  was  rather  frail 
and  tender-looking,  with  wondering  eyes  that  showed  she  had 
been  crying. 

"  Come,  daughter  of  the  Tawaras,"  said  Madame  brightly 
to  her.  "  We  have  been  waiting  for  you.  Good-morning,  and 
all  happiness,  eh?  Look,  it  is  a  gift-day  for  you — ' 

Madame  smilingly  led  Alvina  to  her  place.  Beside  her 
plate  was  a  bunch  of  violets,  a  bunch  of  carnations,  a  pair 
of  exquisite  bead  moccasins,  and  a  pair  of  fine  doeskin  gloves 
delicately  decorated  with  feather-work  on  the  cuffs.  The 
slippers  were  from  Kishwegin,  the  gloves  from  Mondagua,  the 
carnations  from  Atonquois,  the  violets  from  Walgatchka  — 
all  To  the  Daughter  of  the  Tawaras,  Allaye,  as  it  said  on  the 
little  cards. 

"  The  gift  of  Pacohuila  you  know,"  said  Madame,  smiling. 
"  The  brothers  of  Pacohuila  are  your  brothers." 

One  by  one  they  went  to  her  and  each  one  laid  the  back  of 
her  fingers  against  his  forehead,  saying  in  turn: 

"I  am  your  brother  Mondagua,  Allaye!  " 

"  I  am  your  brother  Atonquois,  Allaye!  " 

"  I  am  your  brother  Walgatchka,  Allaye,  best  brother,  you 
know — "  So  spoke  Geoffrey,  looking  at  her  with  large,  al- 
most solemn  eyes  of  affection.  Alvina  smiled  a  little  wanly, 
wondering  where  she  was.  It  was  all  so  solemn.  Was  it  all 
mockery,  play-acting?  She  felt  bitterly  inclined  to  cry. 

Meanwhile  Madame  came  in  with  the  coffee,  which  she 
always  made  herself,  and  the  party  sat  down  to  breakfast. 
Giccio  sat  on  Alvina's  right,  but  he  seemed  to  avoid  looking 
at  her  or  speaking  to  her.  All  the  time  he  looked  across 
the  table,  with  the  half-asserted,  knowing  look  in  his  eyes,  at 
Gigi:  and  all  the  time  he  addressed  himself  to  Gigi,  with  the 
throaty,  rich,  plangent  quality  in  his  voice,  that  Alvina  could 
not  bear,  it  seemed  terrible  to  her:  and  he  spoke  in  French: 
and  the  two  men  seemed  to  be  exchanging  unspeakable  com- 
munications. So  that  Alvina,  for  all  her  wistfulness  and  sub- 
jectedness,  was  at  last  seriously  offended.  She  rose  as  soon 
as  possible  from  table.  In  her  own  heart  she  wanted  atten- 


ALVINA  BECOMES  ALLAYE  229 

tion  and  public  recognition  from  Ciccio  —  none  of  which  she 
got.  She  returned  to  her  own  house,  to  her  own  room,  anxious 
to  tidy  everything,  not  wishing  to  have  her  landlady  in  the 
room.  And  she  half  expected  Ciccio  to  come  to  speak  to  her. 

As  she  was  busy  washing  a  garment  in  the  bowl,  her  land- 
lady knocked  and  entered.  She  was  a  rough  and  rather 
beery-looking  Yorkshire  woman,  not  attractive. 

"  Oh,  yo'n  made  yer  bed  then,  han'  yer!  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Alvina.     "  I've  done  everything." 

*'  I  see  yer  han.    Yo'n  bin  sharp." 

Alvina  did  not  answer. 

"  Seems  yer  doin'  yersen  a  bit  o'  weshinV 

Still  Alvina  didn't  answer. 

"  Yo'  can  'ing  it  i'  th'  back  yard." 

"  I  think  it'll  dry  here,"  said  Alvina. 

"  Isna  much  dryin'  up  here.  Send  us  howd  when  Ys  ready. 
Yo'll  'appen  be  wantin'  it.  I  can  dry  it  off  for  yer  i'  t' 
kitchen.  You  don't  take  a  drop  o'  nothink,  do  yer?  " 

"  No,"  said  Alvina.     "  I  don't  like  it." 

"Summat  a  bit  stronger  'n  't  bottle,  my  sakes  alive!  Well, 
yo  mun  ha'e  yer  fling,  like  t'  rest.  But  coom  na,  which  on 
'em  is  it?  I  catched  sight  on  'im  goin'  out,  but  I  didna  ma'e 
out  then  which  on  'em  it  wor.  He  —  eh,  it's  a  pity  you  don't 
take  a  drop  of  nothink,  it's  a  world's  pity.  Is  it  the  fairest 
on  'em,  the  tallest." 

"  No,"  said  Alvina.     "  The  darkest  one." 

"  Oh  ay!  Well,  's  a  strappin'  anuff  feller,  for  them  as  goes 
that  road.  I  thought  Madame  was  partikler.  I  s'll  charge 
yer  a  bit  more,  yer  know.  I  s'll  'ave  to  make  a  bit  out  of 
it.  I'm  partikler  as  a  rule.  I  don't  like  'em  comin'  in  an' 
goin'  out,  you  know.  Things  get  said.  You  look  so  quiet, 
you  do.  Come  now,  it's  worth  a  hextra  quart  to  me,  else  I 
shan't  have  it,  I  shan't.  You  can't  make  as  free  as  all  that 
with  the  house,  you  know,  be  it  what  it  may — " 

She  stood  red-faced  and  dour  in  the  doorway.  Alvina 
quietly  gave  her  half-a-sovereign. 

"  Nay,  lass,"  said  the  woman,  "  if  you  share  niver  a  drop 
o'  th'  lashins,  you  mun  split  it.  Five  shillin's  is  oceans,  ma 
wench.  I'm  not  down  on  you  —  not  me.  On'y  we've  got  to 
keep  up  appearances  a  bit,  you  know.  Dash  my  rags,  it's  a 
caution!  " 

"  I  haven't  got  five  shillings  — "  said  Alvina. 


230  THE  LOST  GIRL 

"YerVe  not?  All  right,  gi'e  's  ha  'ef  crown  today,  an* 
t'other  termorrer.  It'll  keep,  it'll  keep.  God  bless  you  for 
a  good  wench.  A'  open  'eart  's  worth  all  your  bum-righteous- 
ness. It  is  for  me.  An'  a  sight  more.  You're  all  right,  ma 
wench,  you're  all  right — " 

And  the  rather  bleary  woman  went  nodding  away. 

Alvina  ought  to  have  minded.  But  she  didn't.  She  even 
laughed  into  her  ricketty  mirror.  At  the  back  of  her  thoughts, 
all  she  minded  was  that  Ciccio  did  not  pay  her  some  attention. 
She  really  expected  him  now  to  come  to  speak  to  her.  If  she 
could  have  imagined  how  far  he  was  from  any  such  intention. 

So  she  loitered  unwillingly  at  her  window  high  over  the 
grey,  hard,  cobbled  street,  and  saw  her  landlady  hastening 
along  the  black  asphalt  pavement,  her  dirty  apron  thrown 
discreetly  over  what  was  most  obviously  a  quart  jug.  She 
followed  the  squat,  intent  figure  with  her  eye,  to  the  public- 
house  at  the  corner.  And  then  she  saw  Ciccio  humped  over 
his  yellow  bicycle,  going  for  a  steep  and  perilous  ride  with 
Gigi. 

Still  she  lingered  in  her  sordid  room.  She  could  feel 
Madame  was  expecting  her.  But  she  felt  inert,  weak,  in- 
communicative. Only  a  real  fear  of  offending  Madame  drove 
her  down  at  last. 

Max  opened  the  door  to  let  her  in. 

"  Ah !  "  he  said.  "  You've  come.  We  were  wondering 
about  you." 

"Thank  you,"  she  said,  as  she  passed  into  the  dirty  hall 
where  still  two  bicycles  stood. 

"  Madame  is  in  the  kitchen,"  he  said. 

Alvina  found  Madame  trussed  in  a  large  white  apron,  busy 
rubbing  a  yellow-fleshed  hen  with  lemon,  previous  to  boiling. 

"Ah!  "  said  Madame.  "So  there  you  are!  I  have  been 
out  and  done  my  shopping,  and  already  begun  to  prepare  the 
dinner.  Yes,  you  may  help  me.  Can  you  wash  leeks?  Yes? 
Every  grain  of  sand?  Shall  I  trust  you  then — ?  " 

Madame  usually  had  a  kitchen  to  herself,  in  the  morning. 
She  either  ousted  her  landlady,  or  used  her  as  second  cook. 
For  Madame  was  a  gourmet,  if  not  gourmand.  If  she  in- 
clined towards  self-indulgence  in  any  direction,  it  was  in  the 
direction  of  food.  She  loved  a  good  table.  And  hence  the 
Tawaras  saved  less  money  than  they  might.  She  was  an  ex- 
acting, tormenting,  bullying  cook.  Alvina,  who  knew  well 


ALVINA  BECOMES  ALLAYE  231 

enough  how  to  prepare  a  simple  dinner,  was  offended  by 
Madame's  exactions.  Madame  turning  back  the  green  leaves 
of  a  leek,  and  hunting  a  speck  of  earth  down  into  the  white, 
like  a  flea  in  a  bed,  was  too  much  for  Alvina. 

"  I'm  afraid  I  shall  never  be  particular  enough,"  she  said. 
"  Can't  I  do  anything  else  for  you?  " 

"  For  me?  I  need  nothing  to  be  done  for  me.  But  for 
the  young  men  —  yes,  I  will  show  you  in  one  minute  — " 

And  she  took  Alvina  upstairs  to  her  room,  and  gave  her  a 
pair  of  the  thin  leather  trousers  fringed  with  hair,  belonging 
to  one  of  the  braves.  A  seam  had  ripped.  Madame  gave 
Alvina  a  fine  awl  and  some  waxed  thread. 

"The  leather  is  not  good  in  these  things  of  Gigi's,"  she 
said.  "  It  is  badly  prepared.  See,  like  this."  And  she 
showed  Alvina  another  place  where  the  garment  was  repaired. 
"  Keep  on  your  apron.  At  the  week-end  you  must  fetch 
more  clothes,  not  spoil  this  beautiful  gown  of  voile.  Where 
have  you  left  your  diamonds?  What?  In  your  room?  Are 
they  locked?  Oh  my  dear — !"  Madame  turned  pale  and 
darted  looks  of  fire  at  Alvina.  "If  they  are  stolen — !  "  she 
cried.  "Oh!  I  have  become  quite  weak,  hearing  you  I  " 
She  panted  and  shook  her  head.  "  If  they  are  not  stolen,  you 
have  the  Holy  Saints  alone  to  be  thankful  for  keeping  them. 
But  run,  run!  " 

And  Madame  really  stamped  her  foot. 

"  Bring  me  everything  you've  got  —  every  thing  that  is 
valuable.  I  shall  lock  it  up.  How  can  you  — " 

Alvina  was  hustled  off  to  her  lodging.  Fortunately  nothing 
was  gone.  She  brought  all  to  Madame,  and  Madame  fingered 
the  treasures  lovingly. 

"  Now  what  you  want  you  must  ask  me  for,"  she  said. 

With  what  close  curiosity  Madame  examined  the  ruby 
brooch. 

"  You  can  have  that  if  you  like,  Madame,"  said  Alvina. 

"  You  mean  —  what?  " 

"  I  will  give  you  that  brooch  if  you  like  to  take  it  — " 

"Give  me  this — !  "  cried  Madame,  and  a  flash  went  over 
her  face.  Then  she  changed  into  a  sort  of  wheedling.  "  No 
—  no.  I  shan't  take  it !  I  shan't  take  it.  You  don't  want  to 
give  away  such  a  thing." 

"  I  don't  mind,"  said  Alvina.     "  Do  take  it  if  you  like  it." 

"Oh  no!     Oh  no!     I  can't  take  it.     A  beautiful  thing  it 


232  THE  LOST  GIRL 

is,  really.     It  would  be  worth  over  a  thousand  francs,  because 
I  believe  it  is  quite  genuine." 

"  I'm  sure  it's  genuine,"  said  Alvina.  "  Do  have  it  since 
you  like  it." 

"Oh,  I  can't!     I  can't!  — " 

"Yes  do—" 

"  The  beautiful  red  stones !  —  antique  gems,  antique  gems 
— !  And  do  you  really  give  it  to  me?  " 

"Yes,  I  should  like  to." 

"You  are  a  girl  with  a  noble  heart — "  Madame  threw 
her  arms  round  Alvina's  neck,  and  kissed  her.  Alvina  felt 
very  cool  about  it.  Madame  locked  up  the  jewels  quickly, 
after  one  last  look. 

"  My  fowl,"  she  said,  "  which  must  not  boil  too  fast." 

At  length  Alvina  was  called  down  to  dinner.  The  young 
men  were  at  table,  talking  as  young  men  do,  not  very  inter- 
estingly. After  the  meal,  Ciccio  sat  and  twanged  his  man- 
doline, making  its  crying  noise  vibrate  through  the  house. 

"  I  shall  go  and  look  at  the  town,"  said  Alvina. 

"And  who  shall  go  with  you?  "  asked  Madame. 

"  I  will  go  alone,"  said  Alvina,  "  unless  you  will  come, 
Madame." 

"Alas  no,  I  can't.  I  can't  come.  Will  you  really  go 
alone?  " 

"  Yes,  I  want  to  go  to  the  women's  shops,"  said  Alvina. 

"You  want  to!  All  right  then!  And  you  will  come  home 
at  tea-time,  yes?  " 

As  soon  as  Alvina  had  gone  out  Ciccio  put  away  his  man- 
doline and  lit  a  cigarette.  Then  after  a  while  he  hailed 
Geoffrey,  and  the  two  young  men  sallied  forth.  Alvina,  emerg- 
ing from  a  draper's  shop  in  Rotherhampton  Broadway,  found 
them  loitering  on  the  pavement  outside.  And  they  strolled 
along  with  her.  So  she  went  into  a  shop  that  sold  ladies' 
underwear,  leaving  them  on  the  pavement.  She  stayed  as  long 
as  she  could.  But  there  they  were  when  she  came  out.  They 
had  endless  lounging  patience. 

"  I  thought  you  would  be  gone  on,"  she  said. 

"  No  hurry,"  said  Ciccio,  and  he  took  away  her  parcels  from 
her,  as  if  he  had  a  right.  She  wished  he  wouldn't  tilt  the 
flap  of  his  black  hat  over  one  eye,  and  she  wished  there 
wasn't  quite  so  much  waist-line  in  the  cut  of  his  coat,  and 
that  he  didn't  smoke  cigarettes  against  the  end  of  his  nose  in 


ALVINA  BECOMES  ALLAYE  233 

the  street.  But  wishing  wouldn't  alter  him.  He  strayed 
alongside  as  if  he  half  belonged,  and  half  didn't  —  most  irri- 
tating. 

She  wasted  as  much  time  as  possible  in  the  shops,  then 
they  took  the  tram  home  again.  Ciccio  paid  the  three  fares, 
laying  his  hand  restrainingly  on  Gigi's  hand,  when  Gigi's 
hand  sought  pence  in  his  trouser  pocket,  and  throwing  his 
arm  over  his  friend's  shoulder,  in  affectionate  but  vulgar 
triumph,  when  the  fares  were  paid.  Alvina  was  on  her  high 
horse. 

They  tried  to  talk  to  her,  they  tried  to  ingratiate  them- 
selves—  but  she  wasn't  having  any.  She  talked  with  icy 
pleasantness.  And  so  the  tea-time  passed,  and  the  time  after 
tea.  The  performance  went  rather  mechanically,  at  the  theatre, 
and  the  supper  at  home,  with  bottled  beer  and  boiled  ham, 
was  a  conventionally  cheerful  affair.  Even  Madame  was  a 
little  afraid  of  Alvina  this  evening. 

"  I  am  tired,  I  shall  go  early  to  my  room,"  said  Alvina. 

"  Yes,  I  think  we  are  all  tired,"  said  Madame. 

"Why  is  it?  "  said  Max  metaphysically — "why  is  it  that 
two  merry  evenings  never  follow  one  behind  the  other." 

"  Max,  beer  makes  thee  a  farceur  of  a  fine  quality,"  said 
Madame.  Alvina  rose. 

"  Please  don't  get  up,"  she  said  to  the  others.  "  I  have 
my  key  and  can  see  quite  well,"  she  said.  "  Good-night  all." 

They  rose  and  bowed  their  good-nights.  But  Ciccio,  with 
an  obstinate  and  ugly  little  smile  on  his  face,  followed  her. 

"  Please  don't  come,"  she  said,  turning  at  the  street  door. 
But  obstinately  he  lounged  into  the  street  with  her.  He 
followed  her  to  her  door. 

"Did  you  bring  the  flash-light?  "  she  said.  "The  stair  is 
so  dark." 

He  looked  at  her,  and  turned  as  if  to  get  the  light. 
Quickly  she  opened  the  house-door  and  slipped  inside,  shut- 
ting it  sharply  in  his  face.  He  stood  for  some  moments 
looking  at  die  door,  and  an  ugly  little  look  mounted  his 
straight  nose.  He  too  turned  indoors. 

Alvina  hurried  to  bed  and  slept  well.  And  the  next  day 
the  same,  she  was  all  icy  pleasantness.  The  Natcha-Kee- 
Tawaras  were  a  little  bit  put  out  by  her.  She  was  a  spoke 
in  their  wheel,  a  scotch  to  their  facility.  She  made  them 
irritable.  And  that  evening  —  it  was  Friday  —  Ciccio  did  not 


234  THE  LOST  GIRL 

rise  to  accompany  her  to  her  house.  And  she  knew  they 
were  relieved  that  she  had  gone. 

That  did  not  please  her.  The  next  day,  which  was  Saturday, 
the  last  and  greatest  day  of  the  week,  she  found  herself  again 
somewhat  of  an  outsider  in  the  troupe.  The  tribe  had  as- 
sembled in  its  old  unison.  She  was  the  intruder,  the  inter- 
loper. And  Ciccio  never  looked  at  her,  only  showed  her 
the  half-averted  side  of  his  cheek,  on  which  was  a  slightly 
jeering,  ugly  look. 

"Will  you  go  to  Woodhouse  tomorrow?  "  Madame  asked 
her,  rather  coolly.  They  none  of  them  called  her  Allaye 
any  more. 

"I'd  better  fetch  some  things,  hadn't  I?  "  said  Alvina. 

"  Certainly,  if  you  think  you  will  stay  with  us." 

This  was  a  nasty  slap  in  the  face  for  her.     But: 

"  I  want  to,"  she  said. 

"  Yes !  Then  you  will  go  to  Woodhouse  tomorrow,  and 
come  to  Mansfield  on  Monday  morning?  Like  that  shall  it 
be?  You  will  stay  one  night  at  Woodhouse?  " 

Through  Alvina's  mind  flitted  the  rapid  thought — "They 
want  an  evening  without  me."  Her  pride  mounted  obstin- 
ately. She  very  nearly  said  — "  I  may  stay  in  Woodhouse 
altogether."  But  she  held  her  tongue. 

After  all,  they  were  very  common  people.  They  ought 
to  be  glad  to  have  her.  Look  how  Madame  snapped  up 
that  brooch!  And  look  what  an  uncouth  lout  Ciccio  was! 
After  all,  she  was  demeaning  herself  shamefully  staying  with 
them  in  common,  sordid  lodgings.  After  all,  she  had  been 
bred  up  differently  from  that.  They  had  horribly  low  stand- 
ards —  such  low  standards  —  not  only  of  morality,  but  of  life 
altogether.  Really,  she  had  come  down  in  the  world,  con- 
forming to  such  standards  of  life.  She  evoked  the  images  of 
her  mother  and  Miss  Frost:  ladies,  and  noble  women  both. 
Whatever  could  she  be  thinking  of  herself! 

However,  there  was  time  for  her  to  retrace  her  steps.  She 
had  not  given  herself  away.  Except  to  Ciccio.  And  her 
heart  burned  when  she  thought  of  him,  partly  with  anger 
and  mortification,  partly,  alas,  with  undeniable  and  unsatis- 
fied love.  Let  her  bridle  as  she  might,  her  heart  burned, 
and  she  wanted  to  look  at  him,  she  wanted  him  to  notice 
her.  And  instinct  told  her  that  he  might  ignore  her  for  ever. 
She  went  to  her  room  an  unhappy  woman,  and  wept  and 
fretted  till  morning,  chafing  between  humiliation  and  yearning. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  FALL  OF   MANCHESTER  HOUSE 

ALVINA  rose  chastened  and  wistful.  As  she  was  doing  her 
hair,  she  heard  the  plaintive  nasal  sound  of  Ciccio's  mando- 
line. She  looked  down  the  mixed  vista  of  back-yards  and 
little  gardens,  and  was  able  to  catch  sight  of  a  portion  of 
Ciccio,  who  was  sitting  on  a  box  in  the  blue-brick  yard  of  his 
house,  bare-headed  and  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  twitching  away 
at  the  wailing  mandoline.  It  was  not  a  warm  morning,  but 
there  was  a  streak  of  sunshine.  Alvina  had  noticed  that 
Ciccio  did  not  seem  to  feel  the  cold,  unless  it  were  a  wind  or 
a  driving  rain.  He  was  playing  the  wildly-yearning  Neapoli- 
tan songs,  of  which  Alvina  knew  nothing.  But,  although 
she  only  saw  a  section  of  him,  the  glimpse  of  his  head  was 
enough  to  rouse  in  her  that  overwhelming  fascination,  which 
came  and  went  in  spells.  His  remoteness,  his  southernness, 
something  velvety  and  dark.  So  easily  she  might  miss  him 
altogether!  Within  a  hair's-breadth  she  had  let  him  dis- 
appear. 

She  hurried  down.  Geoffrey  opened  the  door  to  her.  She 
smiled  at  him  in  a  quick,  luminous  smile,  a  magic  change  in 
her. 

"  I  could  hear  Ciccio  playing,"  she  said. 

Geoffrey  spread  his  rather  thick  lips  in  a  smile,  and  jerked 
his  head  in  the  direction  of  the  back  door,  with  a  deep,  inti- 
mate look  into  Alvina's  eyes,  as  if  to  say  his  friend  was  love- 
sick. 

"Shall  I  go  through?  "  said  Alvina. 

Geoffrey  laid  his  large  hand  on  her  shoulder  for  a  moment, 
looked  into  her  eyes,  and  nodded.  He  was  a  broad-shouldered 
fellow,  with  a  rather  flat,  handsome  face,  well-coloured,  and 
with  the  look  of  the  Alpine  ox  about  him,  slow,  eternal,  even 
a  little  mysterious.  Alvina  was  startled  by  the  deep,  mysteri- 
ous look  in  his  dark-fringed  ox-eyes.  The  odd  arch  of  his 
eyebrows  made  him  suddenly  seem  not  quite  human  to  her. 

235 


236  THE  LOST  GIRL 

She  smiled  to  him  again,  startled.  But  he  only  inclined  his 
head,  and  with  his  heavy  hand  on  her  shoulder  gently  impelled 
her  towards  Ciccio. 

When  she  came  out  at  the  back  she  smiled  straight  into 
Ciccio's  face,  with  her  sudden,  luminous  smile.  His  hand  on 
the  mandoline  trembled  into  silence.  He  sat  looking  at  her 
with  an  instant  re-establishment  of  knowledge.  And  yet 
she  shrank  from  the  long,  inscrutable  gaze  of  his  black-set, 
tawny  eyes.  She  resented  him  a  little.  And  yet  she  went 
forward  to  him  and  stood  so  that  her  dress  touched  him. 
And  still  he  gazed  up  at  her,  with  the  heavy,  unspeaking 
look,  that  seemed  to  bear  her  down:  he  seemed  like  some 
creature  that  was  watching  her  for  his  purposes.  She  looked 
aside  at  the  black  garden,  which  had  a  wiry  goose-berry  bush. 

"  You  will  come  with  me  to  Woodhouse?  "  she  said. 

He  did  not  answer  till  she  turned  to  him  again.  Then, 
as  she  met  his  eyes, 

"To  Woodhouse?  "  he  said,  watching  her,  to  fix  her. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  a  little  pale  at  the  lips. 

And  she  saw  his  eternal  smile  of  triumph  slowly  growing 
round  his  mouth.  She  wanted  to  cover  his  mouth  with  her 
hand.  She  preferred  his  tawny  eyes  with  their  black  brows 
and  lashes.  His  eyes  watched  her  as  a  cat  watches  a  bird, 
but  without  the  white  gleam  of  ferocity.  In  his  eyes  was  a 
deep,  deep  sun-warmth,  something  fathomless,  deepening  black 
and  abysmal,  but  somehow  sweet  to  her. 

"Will  you?"  she  repeated. 

But  his  eyes  had  already  begun  to  glimmer  their  consent. 
He  turned  aside  his  face,  as  if  unwilling  to  give  a  straight 
answer. 

"Yes,"  he  said. 

"  Play  something  to  me,"  she  cried. 

He  lifted  his  face  to  her,  and  shook  his  head  slightly. 

"  Yes  do,"  she  said,  looking  down  on  him. 

And  he  bent  his  head  to  the  mandoline,  and  suddenly 
began  to  sing  a  Neapolitan  song,  in  a  faint,  compressed 
head-voice,  looking  up  at  her  again  as  his  lips  moved,  look- 
ing straight  into  her  face  with  a  curious  mocking  caress  as 
the  muted  voix  blanche  came  through  his  lips  at  her,  amid 
the  louder  quavering  of  the  mandoline.  The  sound  pene- 
trated her  like  a  thread  of  fire,  hurting,  but  delicious,  the 
high  thread  of  his  voice.  She  could  see  the  Adam's  apple 


THE  FALL  OF  MANCHESTER  HOUSE  237 

move  in  his  throat,  his  brows  tilted  as  he  looked  along  his 
lashes  at  her  all  the  time.  Here  was  the  strange  sphinx 
singing  again,  and  herself  between  its  paws!  She  seemed 
almost  to  melt  into  his  power. 

Madame  intervened  to  save  her. 

"  What,  serenade  before  breakfast !  You  have  strong 
stomachs,  I  say.  Eggs  and  ham  are  more  the  question,  hein? 
Come,  you  smell  them,  don't  you?  " 

A  flicker  of  contempt  and  derision  went  over  Ciccio's  face 
as-  he  broke  off  and  looked  aside. 

"  I  prefer  the  serenade,"  said  Alvina.  "  I've  had  ham  and 
eggs  before." 

"  You  do,  hein?  Well  —  always,  you  won't.  And  now  you 
must  eat  the  ham  and  eggs,  however.  Yes?  Isn't  it  so?  " 

Ciccio  rose  to  his  feet,  and  looked  at  Alvina:  as  he  would 
have  looked  at  Gigi,  had  Gigi  been  there.  His  eyes  said 
unspeakable  things  about  Madame.  Alvina  flashed  a  laugh, 
suddenly.  And  a  good-humoured,  half-mocking  smile  came 
over  his  face  too. 

They  turned  to  follow  Madame  into  the  house.  And  as 
Alvina  went  before  him,  she  felt  his  fingers  stroke  the  nape 
of  her  neck,  and  pass  in  a  soft  touch  right  down  her  back. 
She  started  as  if  some  unseen  creature  had  stroked  her  with 
its  paw,  and  she  glanced  swiftly  round,  to  see  the  face  of 
Ciccio  mischievous  behind  her  shoulder. 

"  Now  I  think,"  said  Madame,  "  that  today  we  all  take 
the  same  train.  We  go  by  the  Great  Central  as  far  as  the 
junction,  together.  Then  you,  Allaye,  go  on  to  Knarborough, 
and  we  leave  you  until  tomorrow.  And  now  there  is  not  much 
time." 

"  I  am  going  to  Woodhouse,"  said  Ciccio  in  French. 

"You  also!     By  the  train,  or  the  bicycle?  " 

"  Train,"  said  Ciccio. 

"  Waste  so  much  money?  " 

Ciccio  raised  his  shoulders  slightly. 

When  breakfast  was  over,  and  Alvina  had  gone  to  her 
room,  Geoffrey  went  out  into  the  back  yard,  where  the  bicycles 
stood. 

"  Cic',"  he  said.  "  I  should  like  to  go  with  thee  to  Wood- 
house.  Come  on  bicycle  with  me." 

Ciccio  shook  his  head. 

"  I'm  going  in  train  with  her"  he  said. 


238  THE  LOST  GIRL 

Geoffrey  darkened  with  his  heavy  anger. 

"  I  would  like  to  see  how  it  is,  there,  chez  elle"  he  said. 

"  Ask  her.,"  said  Ciccio. 

Geoffrey  watched  him  suddenly. 

"  Thou  forsakest  me,"  he  said.  "  I  would  like  to  see  it, 
there." 

"  Ask  her,"  repeated  Ciccio.     "  Then  come  on  bicycle." 

"  You're  content  to  leave  me,"  muttered  Geoffrey. 

Ciccio  touched  his  friend  on  his  broad  cheek,  and  smiled 
at  him  with  affection. 

"  I  don't  leave  thee,  Gigi.  I  asked  thy  advice.  You  said, 
Go.  But  come.  Go  and  ask  her,  and  then  come.  Come  on 
bicycle,  eh?  Ask  her!  Go  on!  Go  and  ask  her." 

Alvina  was  surprised  to  hear  a  tap  at  her  door,  and  Gigi's 
voice,  in  his  strong  foreign  accent: 

"  Mees  Houghton,  I  carry  your  bag." 

She  opened  her  door  in  surprise.     She  was  all  ready. 

"  There  it  is,"  she  said,  smiling  at  him. 

But  he  confronted  her  like  a  powerful  ox,  full  of  dangerous 
force.  Her  smile  had  reassured  him. 

"  Na,  Allaye,"  he  said,  "  tell  me  something." 

"What?  "  laughed  Alvina. 

"  Can  I  come  to  Woodhouse?  " 

"When?" 

"  Today.  Can  I  come  on  bicycle,  to  tea,  eh?  At  your 
house  with  you  and  Ciccio?  Eh?  " 

He  was  smiling  with  a  thick,  doubtful,  half  sullen  smile. 

"Do!  "  said  Alvina. 

He  looked  at  her  with  his  large,  dark-blue  eyes. 

"Really,  eh?  "  he  said,  holding  out  his  large  hand. 

She  shook  hands  with  him  warmly. 

"Yes,  really!  "  she  said.     "I  wish  you  would." 

"  Good,"  he  said,  a  broad  smile  on  his  thick  mouth.  And 
all  the  time  he  watched  her  curiously,  from  his  large  eyes. 

"  Ciccio  —  a  good  chap,  eh?  "  he  said. 

"Is  he?"  laughed  Alvina. 

"Ha-a  — !"  Gigi  shook  his  head  solemnly.  "The 
best!  "  He  made  such  solemn  eyes,  Alvina  laughed.  He 
laughed  too,  and  picked  up  her  bag  as  if  it  were  a  bubble. 

"  Na  Cic' — "  he  said,  as  he  saw  Ciccio  in  the  street. 
"  Sommes  d'accord." 


THE  FALL  OF  MANCHESTER  HOUSE          239 

"  Ben !  "  said  Ciccio,  holding  out  his  hand  for  the  bag. 
"Donne." 

"  Ne-ne,"  said  Gigi,  shrugging. 

Alvina  found  herself  on  the  new  and  busy  station  that 
Sunday  morning,  one  of  the  little  theatrical  company.  It 
was  an  odd  experience.  They  were  so  obviously  a  theatrical 
company  —  people  apart  from  the  world.  Madame  was  dart- 
ing her  black  eyes  here  and  there,  behind  her  spotted  veil, 
and  standing  with  the  ostensible  self-possession  of  her  pro- 
fession. Max  was  circling  round  with  large  strides,  round 
a  big  black  box  on  which  the  red  words  Natcha-Kee-Tawara 
showed  mystic,  and  round  the  small  bunch  of  stage  fittings 
at  the  end  of  the  platform.  Louis  was  waiting  to  get  the 
tickets,  Gigi  and  Ciccio  were  bringing  up  the  bicycles.  They 
were  a  whole  train  of  departure  in  themselves,  busy,  bustling, 
cheerful  —  and  curiously  apart,  vagrants. 

Alvina  strolled  away  towards  the  half-open  bookstall. 
Geoffrey  was  standing  monumental  between  her  and  the  com- 
pany. She  returned  to  him. 

"What  time  shall  we  expect  you?  "  she  said. 

He  smiled  at  her  in  his  broad,  friendly  fashion. 

"Expect  me  to  be  there?  Why — "  he  rolled  his  eyes  and 
proceeded  to  calculate.  "At  four  o'clock." 

"  Just  about  the  time  when  we  get  there,"  she  said. 

He  looked  at  her  sagely,  and  nodded. 

They  were  a  good-humoured  company  in  the  railway  car- 
riage. The  men  smoked  cigarettes  and  tapped  off  the  ash 
on  the  heels  of  their  boots,  Madame  watched  every  traveller 
with  professional  curiosity.  Max  scrutinized  the  newspaper, 
Lloyds,  and  pointed  out  items  to  Louis,  who  read  them  over 
Max's  shoulder,  Ciccio  suddenly  smacked  Geoffrey  on  the 
thigh,  and  looked  laughing  into  his  face.  So  till  they  arrived 
at  the  junction.  And  then  there  was  a  kissing  and  a  taking 
of  farewells,  as  if  the  company  were  separating  for  ever. 
Louis  darted  into  the  refreshment  bar  and  returned  with  little 
pies  and  oranges,  which  he  deposited  in  the  carriage,  Madame 
presented  Alvina  with  a  packet  of  chocolate.  And  it  was 
"  Good-bye,  good-bye,  Allaye !  Good-bye,  Ciccio !  Bon  voy- 
age. Have  a  good  time,  both." 

So  Alvina  sped  on  in  the  fast  train  to  Knarborough  with 
Ciccio. 


240  THE  LOST  GIRL 

"  I  do  like  them  all,"  she  said. 

He  opened  his  mouth  slightly  and  lifted  his  head  up  and 
down.  She  saw  in  the  movement  how  affectionate  he  was, 
and  in  his  own  way,  how  emotional.  He  loved  them  all. 
She  put  her  hand  to  his.  He  gave  her  hand  one  sudden 
squeeze,  of  physical  understanding,  then  left  it  as  if  nothing 
had  happened.  There  were  other  people  in  the  carriage 
with  them.  She  could  not  help  feeling  how  sudden  and 
lovely  that  moment's  grasp  of  his  hand  was:  so  warm,  so 
whole. 

And  thus  they  watched  the  Sunday  morning  landscape 
slip  by,  as  they  ran  into  Knarborough.  They  went  out  to 
a  little  restaurant  to  eat.  It  was  one  o'clock. 

"  Isn't  it  strange,  that  we  are  travelling  together  like  this?  " 
she  said,  as  she  sat  opposite  him. 

He  smiled,  looking  into  her  eyes. 

"  You  think  it's  strange?  "  he  said,  showing  his  teeth 
slightly. 

"Don't  you?"  she  cried. 

He  gave  a  slight,  laconic  laugh. 

"And  I  can  hardly  bear  it  that  I  love  you  so  much,"  she 
said,  quavering,  across  the  potatoes. 

He  glanced  furtively  round,  to  see  if  any  one  was  listening, 
if  any  one  might  hear.  He  would  have  hated  it.  But  no 
one  was  near.  Beneath  the  tiny  table,  he  took  her  two  knees 
between  his  knees,  and  pressed  them  with  a  slow,  immensely 
powerful  pressure.  Helplessly  she  put  her  hand  across  the 
table  to  him.  He  covered  it  for  one  moment  with  his  hand, 
then  ignored  it.  But  her  knees  were  still  between  the  power- 
ful, living  vice  of  his  knees. 

"Eat!  "  he  said  to  her,  smiling,  motioning  to  her  plate. 
And  he  relaxed  her. 

They  decided  to  go  out  to  Woodhouse  on  the  tram-car,  a 
long  hour's  ride.  Sitting  on  the  top  of  the  covered  car,  in 
the  atmosphere  of  strong  tobacco  smoke,  he  seemed  self- 
conscious,  withdrawn  into  his  own  cover,  so  obviously  a  dark- 
skinned  foreigner.  And  Alvina,  as  she  sat  beside  him,  was 
reminded  of  the  woman  with  the  negro  husband,  down  in 
Lumley.  She  understood  the  woman's  reserve.  She  herself 
felt,  in  the  same  way,  something  of  an  outcast,  because  of  the 
man  at  her  side.  An  outcast!  And  glad  to  be  an  outcast. 
She  clung  to  Ciccio's  dark,  despised  foreign  nature.  She 


THE  FALL  OF  MANCHESTER  HOUSE  241 

loved  it,  she  worshipped  it,  she  defied  all  the  other  world. 
Dark,  he  sat  beside  her,  drawn  in  to  himself,  overcast  by  his 
presumed  inferiority  among  these  northern  industrial  people. 
And  she  was  with  him,  on  his  side,  outside  the  pale  of  her 
own  people. 

There  were  already  acquaintances  on  the  tram.  She  nodded 
in  answer  to  their  salutation,  but  so  obviously  from  a  dis- 
tance, that  they  kept  turning  round  to  eye  her  and  Ciccio. 
But  they  left  her  alone.  The  breach  between  her  and  them 
was  established  for  ever  —  and  it  was  her  will  which  estab- 
lished it. 

So  up  and  down  the  weary  hills  of  the  hilly,  industrial 
countryside,  till  at  last  they  drew  near  to  Woodhouse.  They 
passed  the  ruins  of  Throttle-Ha'penny,  and  Alvina  glanced 
at  it  indifferent.  They  ran  along  the  Knarborough  Road. 
A  fair  number  of  Woodhouse  young  people  were  strolling 
along  the  pavements  in  their  Sunday  clothes.  She  knew  them 
all.  She  knew  Lizzie  Bates's  fox  furs,  and  Fanny  Clough's 
lilac  costume,  and  Mrs.  Smitham's  winged  hat.  She  knew 
them  all.  And  almost  inevitably  the  old  Woodhouse  feeling 
began  to  steal  over  her,  she  was  glad  they  could  not  see  her, 
she  was  a  little  ashamed  of  Ciccio.  She  wished,  for  the 
moment,  Ciccio  were  not  there.  And  as  the  time  came  to  get 
down,  she  looked  anxiously  back  and  forth  to  see  at  which 
halt  she  had  better  descend  —  where  fewer  people  would  notice 
her.  But  then  she  threw  her  scruples  to  the  wind,  and 
descended  into  the  staring,  Sunday  afternoon  street,  attended 
by  Ciccio,  who  carried  her  bag.  She  knew  she  was  a  marked 
figure. 

They  slipped  round  to  Manchester  House.  Miss  Pinnegar 
expected  Alvina,  but  by  the  train,  which  came  later.  So 
she  had  to  be  knocked  up,  for  she  was  lying  down.  She 
opened  the  door  looking  a  little  patched  in  her  cheeks,  be- 
cause of  her  curious  colouring,  and  a  little  forlorn,  and  a 
little  dumpy,  and  a  little  irritable. 

"  I  didn't  know  there'd  be  two  of  you,"  was  her  greeting. 

"  Didn't  you,"  said  Alvina,  kissing  her.  "  Ciccio  came  to 
carry  my  bag." 

"  Oh,"  said  Miss  Pinnegar.  "  How  do  you  do?  "  and  she 
thrust  out  her  hand  to  him.  He  shook  it  loosely. 

"  I  had  your  wire,"  said  Miss  Pinnegar.  "  You  said  the 
train.  Mrs.  Rollings  is  coming  in  at  four  again  — " 


242  THE  LOST  GIRL 

"  Oh  all  right  — "  said  Alvina. 

The  house  was  silent  and  afternoon-like.  Ciccio  took  off 
his  coat  and  sat  down  in  Mr.  Houghton's  chair.  Alvina  told 
him  to  smoke.  He  kept  silent  and  reserved.  Miss  Pinne- 
gar,  a  poor,  patch -cheeked,  rather  round-backed  figure  with 
grey-brown  fringe,  stood  as  if  she  did  not  quite  know  what  to 
say  or  do. 

She  followed  Alvina  upstairs  to  her  room. 

"  I  can't  think  why  you  bring  him  here,"  snapped  Miss 
Pinnegar.  "  I  don't  know  what  you're  thinking  about.  The 
whole  place  is  talking  already." 

"  I  don't  care,"  said  Alvina.     "  I  like  him." 

"  Oh  —  for  shame !  "  cried  Miss  Pinnegar,  lifting  her  hand 
with  Miss  Frost's  helpless,  involuntary  movement.  "  What 
do  you  think  of  yourself?  And  your  father  a  month  dead." 

"  It  doesn't  matter.  Father  is  dead.  And  I'm  sure  the 
dead  don't  mind." 

"  I  never  knew  such  things  as  you  say." 

"Why?     I  mean  them." 

Miss  Pinnegar  stood  blank  and  helpless. 

"You're  not  asking  him  to  stay  the  night,"  she  blurted. 

"Yes.  And  I'm  going  back  with  him  to  Madame  to- 
morrow. You  know  I'm  part  of  the  company  now,  as  pianist." 

"And  are  you  going  to  marry  him?  " 

"  I  don't  know." 

"How  can  you  say  you  don't  know!  Why,  it's  awful. 
You  make  me  feel  I  shall  go  out  of  my  mind." 

"  But  I  don't  know,"  said  Alvina. 

"It's  incredible!  Simply  incredible!  I  believe  you're 
out  of  your  senses.  I  used  to  think  sometimes  there  was 
something  wrong  with  your  mother.  And  that's  what  it  is 
with  you.  You're  not  quite  right  in  your  mind.  You  need 
to  be  looked  after." 

"Do  I,  Miss  Pinnegar!  Ah,  well,  don't  you  trouble  to 
look  after  me,  will  you?  " 

"  No  one  will  if  I  don't." 

"  I  hope  no  one  will." 

There  was  a  pause. 

"  I'm  ashamed  to  live  another  day  in  Woodhouse,"  said 
Miss  Pinnegar. 

"  Pm  leaving  it  for  ever,"  said  Alvina. 

"  I  should  think  so,"  said  Miss  Pinnegar. 


THE  FALL  OF  MANCHESTER  HOUSE          243 

Suddenly  she  sank  into  a  chair,  and  burst  into  tears,  wail- 
ing: 

"  Your  poor  father !     Your  poor  father ! 

"I'm  sure  the  dead  are  all  right.  Why  must  you  pity 
him?  " 

"  You're  a  lost  girl !  "  cried  Miss  Pinnegar. 

"Am  I  really?  "  laughed  Alvina.     It  sounded  funny. 

"  Yes,  you're  a  lost  girl,"  sobbed  Miss  Pinnegar,  on  a  fipal 
note  of  despair. 

"  I  like  being  lost,"  said  Alvina. 

Miss  Pinnegar  wept  herself  into  silence.  She  looked 
huddled  and  forlorn.  Alvina  went  to  her  and  laid  her  hand 
on  her  shoulder. 

"Don't  fret,  Miss  Pinnegar,"  she  said.  "Don't  be  silly. 
I  love  to  be  with  Ciccio  and  Madame.  Perhaps  in  the  end  I 
shall  marry  him.  But  if  I  don't—  '  her  hand  suddenly 
gripped  Miss  Pinnegar's  heavy  arm  till  it  hurt  — "  I  wouldn't 
lose  a  minute  of  him,  no,  not  for  anything  would  I." 

Poor  Miss  Pinnegar  dwindled,  convinced. 

"You  make  it  hard  for  me,  in  Woodhouse,"  she  said, 
hopeless. 

"  Never  mind,"  said  Alvina,  kissing  her.  "  Woodhouse 
isn't  heaven  and  earth." 

"  It's  been  my  home  for  forty  years." 

"  It's  been  mine  for  thirty.  That's  why  I'm  glad  to  leave 
it."  There  was  a  pause. 

"  I've  been  thinking,"  said  Miss  Pinnegar,  "  about  opening 
a  little  business  in  Tamworth.  You  know  the  Watsons  are 
there." 

"  I  believe  you'd  be  happy,"  said  Alvina. 

Miss  Pinnegar  pulled  herself  together.  She  had  energy 
and  courage  still. 

"  I  don't  want  to  stay  here,  anyhow,"  she  said.  "  Wood- 
house  has  nothing  for  me  any  more." 

"Of  course  it  hasn't,"  said  Alvina.  "I  think  you'd  be 
happier  away  from  it." 

"Yes  — probably  I  should  — now!  " 

None  the  less,  poor  Miss  Pinnegar  was  grey-haired,  she 
was  almost  a  dumpy,  odd  old  woman. 

They  went  downstairs.     Miss  Pinnegar  put  on  the  kettle. 

"Would  you  like  to  see  the  house?  "  said  Alvina  to  Ciccio. 

He  nodded.     And  she  took  him  from  room  to  room.     His 


244  THE  LOST  GIRL 

) 

eyes  looked  quickly  and  curiously  over  everything,  noticing 
things,  but  without  criticism. 

"  This  was  my  mother's  little  sitting-room,"  she  said.  "  She 
sat  here  for  years,  in  this  chair." 

"  Always  here?  "  he  said,  looking  into  Alvina's  face. 

"  Yes.  She  was  ill  with  her  heart.  This  is  another  photo- 
graph of  her.  I'm  not  like  her." 

"Who  is  that?  "  he  asked,  pointing  to  a  photograph  of  the 
handsome,  white-haired  Miss  Frost. 

"  That  was  Miss  Frost,  my  governess.  She  lived  here  till 
she  died.  I  loved  her  —  she  meant  everything  to  me." 

"  She  also  dead  — ?  " 

"  Yes,  five  years  ago." 

They  went  to  the  drawing-room.  He  laid  his  hand  on  the 
keys  of  the  piano,  sounding  a  chord. 

"  Play,"  she  said. 

He  shook  his  head,  smiling  slightly.  But  he  wished  her  to 
play.  She  sat  and  played  one  of  Kishwegin's  pieces.  He 
listened,  faintly  smiling. 

"Fine  piano  —  eh?  "  he  said,  looking  into  her  face. 

"  I  like  the  tone,"  she  said. 

"Is  it  yours?" 

"The  piano?  Yes.  I  suppose  everything  is  mine  —  in 
name  at  least.  I  don't  know  how  father's  affairs  are  really." 

He  looked  at  her,  and  again  his  eye  wandered  over  the 
room.  He  saw  a  little  coloured  portrait  of  a  child  with  a 
fleece  of  brownish-gold  hair  and  surprised  eyes,  in  a  pale- 
blue  stiff  frock  with  a  broad  dark-blue  sash. 

"  You?  "  he  said. 

"Do  you  recognize  me?  "  she  said.     "Aren't  I  comical?  " 

She  took  him  upstairs  —  first  to  the  monumental  bedroom. 

"  This  was  mother's  room,"  she  said.     "  Now  it  is  mine." 

He  looked  at  her,  then  at  the  things  in  the  room,  then  out 
of  the  window,  then  at  her  again.  She  flushed,  and  hurried 
to  show  him  his  room,  and  the  bath-room.  Then  she  went 
downstairs. 

He  kept  glancing  up  at  the  height  of  the  ceilings,  the  size 
of  the  rooms,  taking  in  the  size  and  proportion  of  the  house, 
and  the  quality  of  the  fittings. 

"  It  is  a  big  house,"  he  said.     "Yours?  " 

"  Mine  in  name,"  said  Alvina.  "  Father  left  all  to  me  — 
and  his  debts  as  well,  you  see." 


THE  FALL  OF  MANCHESTER  HOUSE          245 

"  Much  debts?  " 

"  Oh  yes !  I  don't  quite  know  how  much.  But  perhaps 
more  debts  than  there  is  property.  I  shall  go  and  see  the 
lawyer  in  the  morning.  Perhaps  there  will  be  nothing  at  all 
left  for  me,  when  everything  is  paid." 

She  had  stopped  on  the  stairs,  telling  him  this,  turning 
round  to  him,  who  was  on  the  steps  above.  He  looked  down 
on  her,  calculating.  Then  he  smiled  sourly. 

"  Bad  job,  eh,  if  it  is  all  gone  — !  "  he  said. 

"  I  don't  mind,  really,  if  I  can  live,"  she  said. 

He  spread  his  hands,  deprecating,  not  understanding.  Then 
he  glanced  up  the  stairs  and  along  the  corridor  again,  and 
downstairs  into  the  hall. 

"  A  fine  big  house.     Grand  if  it  was  yours,"  he  said. 

"  I  wish  it  were,"  she  said  rather  pathetically,  "  if  you  like 
it  so  much." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  He!  "  he  said.     "  How  not  like  it!  " 

"  I  don't  like  it,"  she  said.  "  I  think  it's  a  gloomy  miser- 
able hole.  I  hate  it.  I've  lived  here  all  my  life  and  seen 
everything  bad  happen  here.  I  hate  it." 

"Why?  "  he  said,  with  a  curious,  sarcastic  intonation. 

"  It's  a  bad  job  it  isn't  yours,  for  certain,"  he  said,  as  they 
entered  the  living-room,  where  Miss  Pinnegar  sat  cutting  bread 
and  butter. 

"What?  "  said  Miss  Pinnegar  sharply. 

"  The  house,"  said  Alvina. 

"Oh  well,  we  don't  know.  We'll  hope  for  the  best," 
replied  Miss  Pinnegar,  arranging  the  bread  and  butter  on 
the  plate.  Then,  rather  tart,  she  added:  "It  is  a  bad  job. 
And  a  good  many  things  are  a  bad  job,  besides  that.  If 
Miss  Houghton  had  what  she  ought  to  have,  things  would 
be  very  different,  I  assure  you." 

"  Oh  yes,"  said  Ciccio,  to  whom  this  address  was  directed. 

"  Very  different  indeed.  If  all  the  money  hadn't  been  — 
lost  —  in  the  way  it  has,  Miss  Houghton  wouldn't  be  playing 
the  piano,  for  one  thing,  in  a  cinematograph  show." 

"  No,  perhaps  not,"  said  Ciccio. 

"  Certainly  not.  It's  not  the  right  thing  for  her  to  be 
doing,  at  all!  " 

"You  think  not?  "  said  Ciccio. 

"  Do  you  imagine  it  is?  "  said  Miss  Pinnegar,  turning  point 
blank  on  him  as  he  sat  by  the  fire. 


246  THE  LOST  GIRL 

He  looked  curiously  at  Miss  Pinnegar,  grinning  slightly. 

"  He!  "  he  said.     "  How  do  I  know!  " 

"  I  should  have  thought  it  was  obvious,"  said  Miss  Pinne- 
gar. 

"He!  "  he  ejaculated,  not  fully  understanding. 

"  But  of  course  those  that  are  used  to  nothing  better  can't 
see  anything  but  what  they're  used  to,"  she  said,  rising  and 
shaking  the  crumbs  from  her  black  silk  apron,  into  the  fire. 
He  watched  her. 

Miss  Pinnegar  went  away  into  the  scullery.  Alvina  was 
laying  a  fire  in  the  drawing-room.  She  came  with  a  dust- 
pan to  take  some  coal  from  the  fire  of  the  living-room. 

"  What  do  you  want?  "  said  Ciccio,  rising.  And  he  took  the 
shovel  from  her  hand. 

"Big,  hot  fires,  aren't  they?"  he  said,  as  he  lifted  the 
burning  coals  from  the  glowing  mass  of  the  grate. 

"Enough,"  said  Alvina.  "Enough!  We'll  put  it  in  the 
drawing-room."  He  carried  the  shovel  of  flaming,  smoking 
coals  to  the  other  room,  and  threw  them  in  the  grate  on  the 
sticks,  watching  Alvina  put  on  more  pieces  of  coal. 

"Fine,  a  fire!  Quick  work,  eh?  A  beautiful  thing,  a 
fire!  You  know  what  they  say  in  my  place:  You  can  live 
without  food,  but  you  can't  live  without  fire." 

"  But  I  thought  it  was  always  hot  in  Naples,"  said  Alvina. 

"No,  it  isn't.  And  my  village,  you  know,  when  I  was 
small  boy,  that  was  in  the  mountains,  an  hour  quick  train 
from  Naples.  Cold  in  the  winter,  hot  in  the  summer — " 

"As  cold  as  England?  "  said  Alvina. 

"  He  —  and  colder.  The  wolves  come  down.  You  could 
hear  them  crying  in  the  night,  in  the  frost  — " 

"How  terrifying — !  "  said  Alvina. 

"And  they  will  kill  the  dogs!  Always  they  kill  the  dogs. 
You  know,  they  hate  dogs,  wolves  do."  He  made  a  queer 
noise,  to  show  how  wolves  hate  dogs.  Alvina  understood, 
and  laughed. 

"  So  should  I,  if  I  was  a  wolf,"  she  said. 

"Yes  —  eh?"  His  eyes  gleamed  on  her  for  a  moment. 
"Ah  but,  the  poor  dogs!  You  find  them  bitten  —  carried 
away  among  the  trees  or  the  stones,  hard  to  find  them,  poor 
things,  the  next  day." 

"  How  frightened  they  must  be — !  "  said  Alvina. 

"  Frightened  —  hu !  "   he  made   sudden   gesticulations   and 


THE  FALL  OF  MANCHESTER  HOUSE          247 

ejaculations,    which    added    volumes    to     his    few    words. 

"And  did  you  like  it,  your  village?  "  she  said. 

He  put  his  head  on  one  side  in  deprecation. 

"No,"  he  said,  "because,  you  see  —  he,  there  is  nothing 
to  do  —  no  money  —  work  —  work  —  work  —  no  life  —  you 
see  nothing.  When  I  was  a  small  boy  my  father,  he  died,  and 
my  mother  comes  with  me  to  Naples.  Then  I  go  with  the 
little  boats  on  the  sea  —  fishing,  carrying  people  — "  He 
flourished  his  hand  as  if  to  make  her  understand  all  the 
things  that  must  be  wordless.  He  smiled  at  her  —  but  there 
was  a  faint,  poignant  sadness  and  remoteness  in  him,  a 
beauty  of  old  fatality,  and  ultimate  indifference  to  fate. 

"And  were  you  very  poor?  " 

"  Poor  ?  —  why  yes !  Nothing.  Rags  —  no  shoes  —  bread, 
little  fish  from  the  sea  —  shell-fish — " 

His  hands  flickered,  his  eyes  rested  on  her  with  a  pro- 
found look  of  knowledge.  And  it  seemed,  in  spite  of  all,  one 
state  was  very  much  the  same  to  him  as  another,  poverty 
was  as  much  life  as  affluence.  Only  he  had  a  sort  of  jealous 
idea  that  it  was  humiliating  to  be  poor,  and  so,  for  vanity's 
sake,  he  would  have  possessions.  The  countless  generations 
of  civilization  behind  him  had  left  him  an  instinct  of  the 
world's  meaninglessness.  Only  his  little  modern  education 
made  money  and  independence  an  idee  fixe.  Old  instinct 
told  him  the  world  was  nothing.  But  modern  education,  so 
shallow,  was  much  more  efficacious  than  instinct.  It  drove 
him  to  make  a  show  of  himself  to  the  world.  Alvina  watching 
him,  as  if  hypnotized,  saw  his  old  beauty,  formed  through 
civilization  after  civilization;  and  at  the  same  time  she  saw 
his  modern  vulgarianism,  and  decadence. 

"And  when  you  go  back,  you  will  go  back  to  your  old 
village?  "  she  said. 

He  made  a  gesture  with  his  head  and  shoulders,  evasive, 
non-committal. 

"  I  don't  know,  you  see,"  he  said. 

"What  is  the  name  of  it?" 

"  Pescocalascio."  He  said  the  word  subduedly,  unwill- 
ingly. 

"  Tell  me  again,"  said  Alvina. 

"  Pescocalascio." 

She  repeated  it. 

"  And  tell  me  how  you  spell  it,"  she  said. 


248  THE  LOST  GIRL 

He  fumbled  in  his  pocket  for  a  pencil  and  a  piece  of  paper. 
She  rose  and  brought  him  an  old  sketch-book.  He  wrote, 
slowly,  but  with  the  beautiful  Italian  hand,  the  name  of  his 
village. 

"  And  write  your  name,"  she  said. 

"  Marasca  Francesco,"  he  wrote. 

"  And  write  the  name  of  your  father  and  mother,"  she  said. 
He  looked  at  her  enquiringly. 

"  I  want  to  see  them,"  she  said. 

"  Marasca  Giovanni,"  he  wrote,  and  under  that  "  Calif ano 
Maria." 

She  looked  at  the  four  names,  in  the  graceful  Italian 
script.  And  one  after  the  other  she  read  them  out.  He 
corrected  her,  smiling  gravely.  When  she  said  them  properly, 
he  nodded. 

"Yes,"  he  said.     "That's  it.     You  say  it  well." 

At  that  moment  Miss  Pinnegar  came  in  to  say  Mrs.  Rollings 
had  seen  another  of  the  young  men  riding  down  the  street. 

"That's  Gigi!  He  doesn't  know  how  to  come  here,"  said 
Ciccio,  quickly  taking  his  hat  and  going  out  to  find  his 
friend. 

Geoffrey  arrived,  his  broad  face  hot  and  perspiring. 

"Couldn't  you  find  it?  "  said  Alvina. 

"  I  find  the  house,  but  I  couldn't  find  no  door,"  said 
Geoffrey. 

They  all  laughed,  and  sat  down  to  tea.  Geoffrey  and 
Ciccio  talked  to  each  other  in  French,  and  kept  each  other  in 
countenance.  Fortunately  for  them,  Madame  had  seen  to 
their  table-manners.  But  still  they  were  far  too  free  and 
easy  to  suit  Miss  Pinnegar. 

"  Do  you  know,"  said  Ciccio  in  French  to  Geoffrey,  "  what 
a  fine  house  this  is?  " 

"  No,"  said  Geoffrey,  rolling  his  large  eyes  round  the  room, 
and  speaking  with  his  cheek  stuffed  out  with  food.  "  Is  it?  " 

"  Ah  —  if  it  was  hers,  you  know  — " 

And  so,  after  tea,  Ciccio  said  to  Alvina: 

"  Shall  you  let  Geoffrey  see  the  house?  " 

The  tour  commenced  again.  Geoffrey,  with  his  thick  legs 
planted  apart,  gazed  round  the  rooms,  and  made  his  comments 
in  French  to  Ciccio.  When  they  climbed  the  stairs,  he 
fingered  the  big,  smooth  mahogany  bannister-rail.  In  the 


THE  FALL  OF  MANCHESTER  HOUSE    249 

bedroom  he  stared  almost  dismayed  at  the  colossal  bed  and 
cupboard.  In  the  bath-room  he  turned  on  the  old-fashioned, 
silver  taps. 

"  Here  is  my  room  — "  said  Ciccio  in  French. 

"Assez  eloigne!  "  replied  Gigi.  Ciccio  also  glanced  along 
the  corridor. 

"  Yes,"  he  said.     "  But  an  open  course  — " 

"  Look,  my  boy  —  if  you  could  marry  this  — "  meaning  the 
house. 

"Ha,  she  doesn't  know  if  it  hers  any  more!  Perhaps  the 
debts  cover  every  bit  of  it." 

"  Don't  say  so!  Na,  that's  a  pity,  that's  a  pity!  La  pauvre 
fille  —  pauvre  demoiselle!"  lamented  Geoffrey. 

"Isn't  it  a  pity!     What  dost  say?  " 

"A  thousand  pities!  A  thousand  pities!  Look,  my  boy, 
love  needs  no  havings,  but  marriage  does.  Love  is  for  all, 
even  the  grasshoppers.  But  marriage  means  a  kitchen. 
That's  how  it  is.  La  pauvre  demoiselle;  c'est  malheur  pour 
elle." 

"That's  true,"  said  Ciccio.  "Et  aussi  pour  moi.  For  me 
as  well." 

"For  thee  as  well,  cher!  Perhaps — "  said  Geoffrey,  lay- 
ing his  arm  on  Ciccio's  shoulder,  and  giving  him  a  sudden 
hug.  They  smiled  to  each  other. 

"Who  knows!  "  said  Ciccio. 

"  Who  knows,  truly,  my  Cic'." 

As  they  went  downstairs  to  rejoin  Alvina,  whom  they 
heard  playing  on  the  piano  in  the  drawing-room,  Geoffrey 
peeped  once  more  into  the  big  bedroom. 

"  Tu  n'es  jamais  monte  si  haut,  mon  beau.  Pour  moi, 
c,a  serait  difficile  de  m'elever.  J'aurais  bien  peur,  moi.  Tu 
te  trouves  aussi  un  peu  ebahi,  hein?  n'est-ce  pas?  " 

"  Y'a  place  pour  trois,"  said  Ciccio. 

"Non,  je  creverais,  la  haut.     Pas  pour  moi!  " 

And  they  went  laughing  downstairs. 

Miss  Pinnegar  was  sitting  with  Alvina,  determined  not  to 
go  to  Chapel  this  evening.  She  sat,  rather  hulked,  reading 
a  novel.  Alvina  flirted  with  the  two  men,  played  the  piano 
to  them,  and  suggested  a  game  of  cards. 

"Oh,  Alvina,  you  will  never  bring  out  the  cards  tonight!  " 
expostulated  poor  Miss  Pinnegar. 


250  THE  LOST  GIRL 

"  But,  Miss  Pinnegar,  it  can't  possibly  hurt  anybody." 

"You  know  what  I  think  —  and  what  your  father  thought 
—  and  your  mother  and  Miss  Frost — " 

"  You  see  I  think  it's  only  prejudice,"  said  Alvina. 

"  Oh  very  well !  "  said  Miss  Pinnegar  angrily. 

And  closing  her  book,  she  rose  and  went  to  the  other  room. 

Alvina  brought  out  the  cards,  and  a  little  box  of  pence 
which  remained  from  Endeavour  harvests.  At  that  moment 
there  was  a  knock.  It  was  Mr.  May.  Miss  Pinnegar  brought 
him  in,  in  triumph. 

"  Oh !  "  he  said.  "  Company !  I  heard  you'd  come,  Miss 
Houghton,  so  I  hastened  to  pay  my  compliments.  I  didn't 
know  you  had  company.  How  do  you  do,  Francesco!  How 
do  you  do,  Geoffrey.  Comment  allez-vous,  alors?  " 

"  Bien!  "  said  Geoffrey.     "  You  are  going  to  take  a  hand?  " 

"  Cards  on  Sunday  evening !  Dear  me,  what  a  revolution ! 
Of  course,  I'm  not  bigoted.  If  Miss  Houghton  asks  me  — " 

Miss  Pinnegar  looked  solemnly  at  Alvina. 

"  Yes,  do  take  a  hand,  Mr.  May,"  said  Alvina. 

"Thank  you,  I  will  then,  if  I  may.  Especially  as  I  see 
those  tempting  piles  of  pennies  and  ha'pennies.  Who  is 
bank,  may  I  ask?  Is  Miss  Pinnegar  going  to  play  too?  " 

But  Miss  Pinnegar  had  turned  her  poor,  bowed  back,  and 
departed. 

"  I'm  afraid  she's  offended,"  said  Alvina. 

"But  why?  We  don't  put  her  soul  in  danger,  do  we 
now?  I'm  a  good  Catholic,  you  know,  I  cant  do  with  these 
provincial  little  creeds.  Who  deals?  Do  you,  Miss  Hough- 
ton?  But  I'm  afraid  we  shall  have  a  rather  dry  game? 
What?  Isn't  that  your  opinion?  " 

The  other  men  laughed. 

"  If  Miss  Houghton  would  just  allow  me  to  run  round  and 
bring  something  in.  Yes?  May  I?  That  would  be  so  much 
more  cheerful.  What  is  your  choice,  gentlemen?  " 

"  Beer,"  said  Ciccio,  and  Geoffrey  nodded. 

"Beer!  Oh  really!  Extraor'nary!  I  always  take  a  little 
whiskey  myself.  What  kind  of  beer?  Ale?  —  or  bitter? 
I'm  afraid  I'd  better  bring  bottles.  Now  how  can  I  secrete 
them?  You  haven't  a  small  travelling  case,  Miss  Houghton? 
Then  I  shall  look  as  if  I'd  just  been  taking  a  journey.  Which 
I  have  —  to  the  Sun  and  back:  and  if  that  isn't  far  enough, 
even  for  Miss  Pinnegar  and  John  Wesley,  why,  I'm  sorry." 


THE  FALL  OF  MANCHESTER  HOUSE    251 

Alvina  produced  the  travelling  case. 

"Excellent!"  he  said.  "Excellent!  It  will  hold  half -a- 
dozen  beautifully.  Now  — "  he  fell  into  a  whisper  — "  hadn't 
I  hetter  sneak  out  at  the  front  door,  and  so  escape  the  clutches 
of  the  watch-dog?  " 

Out  he  went,  on  tip-toe,  the  other  two  men  grinning  at  him. 
Fortunately  there  were  glasses,  the  best  old  glasses,  in  the 
side  cupboard  in  the  drawing  room.  But  unfortunately, 
when  Mr.  May  returned,  a  corkscrew  was  in  request.  So 
Alvina  stole  to  the  kitchen.  Miss  Pinnegar  sat  dumped  by 
the  fire,  with  her  spectacles  and  her  book.  She  watched  like 
a  lynx  as  Alvina  returned.  And  she  saw  the  tell-tale  cork- 
screw. So  she  dumped  a  little  deeper  in  her  chair. 

"There  was  a  sound  of  revelry  by  night!  "  For  Mr.  May, 
after  a  long  depression,  was  in  high  feather.  They  shouted, 
positively  shouted  over  their  cards,  they  roared  with  excite- 
ment, expostulation,  and  laughter.  Miss  Pinnegar  sat  through 
it  all.  But  at  one  point  she  could  bear  it  no  longer. 

The  drawing-room  door  opened,  and  the  dumpy,  hulked, 
faded  woman  in  a  black  serge  dress  stood  like  a  rather  squat 
avenging  angel  in  the  doorway. 

"  What  would  your  father  say  to  this?  "  she  said  sternly. 

The  company  suspended  their  laughter  and  their  cards, 
and  looked  around.  Miss  Pinnegar  wilted  and  felt  strange 
under  so  many  eyes. 

"Father!"  said  Alvina.     "But  why  father?" 

"  You  lost  girl !  "  said  Miss  Pinnegar,  backing  out  and 
closing  the  door. 

Mr.  May  laughed  so  much  that  he  knocked  his  whiskey 
over. 

"There,"  he  cried,  helpless,  "look  what  she's  cost  me!" 
And  he  went  off  into  another  paroxysm,  swelling  like  a 
turkey. 

Ciccio  opened  his  mouth,  laughing  silently. 

"  Lost  girl!  Lost  girl!  How  lost,  when  you  are  at  home?  " 
said  Geoffrey,  making  large  eyes  and  looking  hither  and 
thither  as  if  he  had  lost  something. 

They  all  went  off  again  in  a  muffled  burst. 

"No  but,  really,"  said  Mr.  May,  "drinking  and  card- 
playing  with  strange  men  in  the  drawing-room  on  Sunday 
evening,  of  cauce  it's  scandalous.  It's  terrible!  I  don't  know 
how  ever  you'll  be  saved,  after  such  a  sin.  And  in  Man- 


252  THE  LOST  GIRL 

Chester  House,  too — !"  He  went  off  into  another  silent, 
turkey-scarlet  burst  of  mirth,  wriggling  in  his  chair  and 
squealing  faintly:  "Oh,  I  love  it,  I  love  it!  You  lost  girl! 
Why  of  cauce  she's  lost!  And  Miss  Pinnegar  has  only  just 
found  it  out.  Who  wouldn't  be  lost?  Why  even  Miss  Pinne- 
gar would  be  lost  if  she  could.  Of  cauce  she  would!  Quite 
natch'ral!" 

Mr.  May  wiped  his  eyes,  with  his  handkerchief  which  had 
unfortunately  mopped  up  his  whiskey. 

So  they  played  on,  till  Mr.  May  and  Geoffrey  had  won  all 
the  pennies,  except  twopence  of  Ciccio's.  Alvina  was  in  debt. 

"  Well  I  think  it's  been  a  most  agreeable  game,"  said  Mr. 
May.  "Most  agreeable!  Don't  you  all?" 

The  two  other  men  smiled  and  nodded. 

"  I'm  only  sorry  to  think  Miss  Houghton  has  lost  so  steadily 
all  evening.  Really  quite  remarkable.  But  then  —  you  see 
—  I  comfort  myself  with  the  reflection  *  Lucky  in  cards,  un- 
lucky in  love.'  I'm  certainly  hounded  with  misfortune  in 
love.  And  I'm  sure  Miss  Houghton  would  rather  be  unlucky 
in  cards  than  in  love.  What,  isn't  it  so?  " 

"  Of  course,"  said  Alvina. 

"There,  you  see,  of  cauce!  Well,  all  we  can  do  after 
that  is  to  wish  her  success  in  love.  Isn't  that  so,  gentlemen? 
I'm  sure  we  are  all  quite  willing  to  do  our  best  to  contribute 
to  it.  Isn't  it  so,  gentlemen?  Aren't  we  all  ready  to  do 
our  best  to  contribute  to  Miss  Houghton's  happiness  in  love? 
Well  then,  let  us  drink  to  it."  He  lifted  his  glass,  and 
bowed  to  Alvina.  "  With  every  wish  for  your  success  in 
love,  Miss  Houghton,  and  your  devoted  servant  — "  He  bowed 
and  drank. 

Geoffrey  made  large  eyes  at  her  as  he  held  up  his  glass. 

"/  know  you'll  come  out  all  right  in  love,  /  know,"  he 
said  heavily. 

"And  you,  Ciccio?     Aren't  you  drinking?  "  said  Mr.  May. 

Ciccio  held  up  his  glass,  looked  at  Alvina,  made  a  little 
mouth  at  her,  comical,  and  drank  his  beer. 

"  Well,"  said  Mr.  May,  "  beer  must  confirm  it,  since  words 
won't." 

"  What  time  is  it?  "  said  Alvina.     "  We  must  have  supper." 

It  was  past  nine  o'clock.  Alvina  rose  and  went  to  the 
kitchen,  the  men  trailing  after  her.  Miss  Pinnegar  was  not 
there.  She  was  not  anywhere. 


THE  FALL  OF  MANCHESTER  HOUSE          253 

"  Has  she  gone  to  bed?  "  said  Mr.  May.  And  he  crept 
stealthily  upstairs  on  tip-toe,  a  comical,  flush-faced,  tubby 
little  man.  He  was  familiar  with  the  house.  He  returned 
prancing. 

"  I  heard  her  cough,"  he  said.  "  There's  a  light  under  her 
door.  She's  gone  to  bed.  Now  haven't  I  always  said  she 
was  a  good  soul?  I  shall  drink  her  health.  Miss  Pinne- 
gar  — "  and  he  bowed  stiffly  in  the  direction  of  the  stairs  — 
"your  health,  and  a  good  night's  rest.9' 

After  which,  giggling  gaily,  he  seated  himself  at  the  head 
of  the  table  and  began  to  carve  the  cold  mutton. 

"  And  where  are  the  Natcha-Kee-Tawaras  this  week?  "  he 
asked.  They  told  him. 

"  Oh?  And  you  two  are  cycling  back  to  the  camp  of 
Kishwegin  tonight?  We  mustn't  prolong  our  cheerfulness  too 
far." 

"  Ciccio  is  staying  to  help  me  with  my  bag  tomorrow," 
said  Alvina.  "You  know  I've  joined  the  Tawaras  perma- 
nently —  as  pianist." 

"No,  I  didn't  know  that!  Oh  really!  Really!  Oh! 
Well!  I  see!  Permanently!  Yes,  I  am  surprised!  Yes! 
As  pianist?  And  if  I  might  ask,  what  is  your  share  of  the 
tribal  income?  " 

"  That  isn't  settled  yet,"  said  Alvina. 

"No!  Exactly!  Exactly!  It  wouldn't  be  settled  yet. 
And  you  say  it  is  a  permanent  engagement?  Of  cauce,  at  such 
a  figure." 

"  Yes,  it  is  a  permanent  engagement,"  said  Alvina. 

"Really!  What  a  blow  you  give  me!  You  won't  come 
back  to  the  Endeavour?  What?  Not  at  all?  " 

"  No,"  said  Alvina.     "  I  shall  sell  out  of  the  Endeavour." 

"Really!  You've  decided,  have  you?  Oh!  This  is  news 
to  me.  And  is  this  quite  final,  too?  " 

"  Quite,"  said  Alvina. 

"  I  see !  Putting  two  and  two  together,  if  I  may  say 
so  — "  and  he  glanced  from  her  to  the  young  men  — "  I  see. 
Most  decidedly,  most  one-sidedly,  if  I  may  use  the  vulgar- 
ism, I  see  —  e  —  el  Oh!  but  what  a  blow  you  give  me! 
What  a  blow  you  give  me!  " 

"Why?"  said  Alvina. 

"What's  to  become  of  the  Endeavour?  and  consequently, 
of  poor  me?  " 


254  THE  LOST  GIRL 

"Can't  you  keep  it  going?  — form  a  company?  " 

"  I'm  afraid  I  can't.  I've  done  my  best.  But  I'm  afraid, 
you  know,  you've  landed  me." 

"  I'm  so  sorry,"  said  Alvina.     "  I  hope  not." 

"Thank  you  for  the  hope"  said  Mr.  May  sarcastically. 
"  They  say  hope  is  sweet.  /  begin  to  find  it  a  little  bitter!  " 

Poor  man,  he  had  already  gone  quite  yellow  in  the  face. 
Ciccio  and  Geoffrey  watched  him  with  dark-seeing  eyes. 

"And  when  are  you  going  to  let  this  fatal  decision  take 
effect?  "  asked  Mr.  May. 

"  I'm  going  to  see  the  lawyer  tomorrow,  and  I'm  going 
to  tell  him  to  sell  everything  and  clear  up  as  soon  as  pos- 
sible," said  Alvina. 

"Sell  everything!     This  house,  and  all  it  contains?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Alvina.     "  Everything." 

"Really!"  Mr.  May  seemed  smitten  quite  dumb.  "I 
feel  as  if  the  world  had  suddenly  come  to  an  end,"  he  said. 

"  But  hasn't  your  world  often  come  to  an  end  before?  " 
said  Alvina. 

"  Well  —  I  suppose,  once  or  twice.  But  never  quite  on  top 
of  me,  you  see,  before — " 

There  was  a  silence. 

"And  have  you  told  Miss  Pinnegar?  "  said  Mr.  May. 

"  Not  finally.  But  she  has  decided  to  open  a  little  business 
in  Tamworth,  where  she  has  relations." 

"  Has  she !  And  are  you  really  going  to  tour  with  these 
young  people  — ?  "  he  indicated  Ciccio  and  Gigi.  "  And  at  no 
salary!"  His  voice  rose.  "Why!  It's  almost  White  Slave 
Traffic,  on  Madame's  part.  Upon  my  word !  " 

"I  don't  think  so,"  said  Alvina.  "Don't  you  see  that's 
insulting." 

"  Insulting!     Well,  I  don't  know.     I  think  it's  the  truth  — " 

"  Not  to  be  said  to  me,  for  all  that,"  said  Alvina,  quivering 
with  anger. 

"Oh!  "  perked  Mr.  May,  yellow  with  strange  rage.  "Oh! 
I  mustn't  say  what  I  think!  Oh!  " 

"  Not  if  you  think  those  things  —  "  said  Alvina. 

"Oh  really!  The  difficulty  is,  you  see,  I'm  afraid  I  do 
think  them —  Alvina  watched  him  with  big,  heavy  eyes. 

"  Go  away,"  she  said.  "  Go  away!  I  won't  be  insulted  by 
you." 

"  No  indeed!  "  cried  Mr.  May,  starting  to  his  feet,  his  eyes 


THE  FALL  OF  MANCHESTER  HOUSE          255 

almost  bolting  from  his  head.  "No  indeed!  I  wouldn't 
think  of  insulting  you  in  the  presence  of  these  two  young 
gentlemen." 

Ciccio  rose  slowly,  and  with  a  slow,  repeated  motion  of 
the  head,  indicated  the  door. 

"Allez!"  he  said. 

"  Certainement!  "  cried  Mr.  May,  flying  at  Ciccio,  verbally, 
like  an  enraged  hen  yellow  at  the  gills.  "  Certainement!  Je 
m'en  vais.  Cette  compagnie  n'est  pas  de  ma  choix." 

"Allez!  "  said  Ciccio,  more  loudly. 

And  Mr.  May  strutted  out  of  the  room  like  a  bird  bursting 
with  its  own  rage.  Ciccio  stood  with  his  hands  on  the  table, 
listening.  They  heard  Mr.  May  slam  the  front  door. 

"Gone!  "  said  Geoffrey. 

Ciccio  smiled  sneeringly. 

"Voyez,  un  cochon  de  lait,"  said  Gigi  amply  and  calmly. 

Ciccio  sat  down  in  his  chair.  Geoffrey  poured  out  some 
beer  for  him,  saying: 

"Drink,  my  Cic',  the  bubble  has  burst,  prfff!  "  And  Gigi 
knocked  in  his  own  puffed  cheek  with  his  fist.  "  Allaye, 
my  dear,  your  health!  We  are  the  Tawaras.  We  are  Allaye! 
We  are  Pacohuila!  We  are  Walgatchka!  Allons!  The 
milk-pig  is  stewed  and  eaten.  Voila!  "  He  drank,  smiling 
broadly. 

"  One  by  one,"  said  Geoffrey,  who  was  a  little  drunk: 
"  One  by  one  we  put  them  out  of  the  field,  they  are  hors  de 
combat.  Who  remains?  Pacohuila,  Walgatchka,  Allaye — " 

He  smiled  very  broadly.  Alvina  was  sitting  sunk  in 
thought  and  torpor  after  her  sudden  anger. 

"Allaye,  what  do  you  think  about?  You  are  the  bride  of 
Tawara,"  said  Geoffrey. 

Alvina  looked  at  him,  smiling  rather  wanly. 

"And  who  is  Tawara?  "  she  asked. 

He  raised  his  shoulders  and  spread  his  hands  and  swayed 
his  head  from  side  to  side,  for  all  the  world  like  a  comic 
mandarin. 

"There!"  he  cried.  "The  question!  Who  is  Tawara? 
Who  ?  Tell  me !  Ciccio  is  he  —  and  I  am  he  —  and  Max  and 
Louis — "  he  spread  his  hand  to  the  distant  members  of  the 
tribe. 

"  I  can't  be  the  bride  of  all  four  of  you,"  said  Alvina, 
laughing. 


256  THE  LOST  GIRL 

"No  —  no!  No  —  no!  Such  a  thing  does  not  come  into 
my  mind.  But  you  are  the  Bride  of  Tawara.  You  dwell 
in  the  tent  of  Pacohuila.  And  comes  the  day,  should  it 
ever  be  so,  there  is  no  room  for  you  in  the  tent  of  Pacohuila, 
then  the  lodge  of  Walgatchka  the  bear  is  open  for  you. 
Open,  yes,  wide  open  — "  He  spread  his  arms  from  his 
ample  chest,  at  the  end  of  the  table.  "  Open,  and  when 
Allaye  enters,  it  is  the  lodge  of  Allaye,  Walgatchka  is  the 
bear  that  serves  Allaye.  By  the  law  of  the  Pale  Face,  by 
the  law  of  the  Yenghees,  by  the  law  of  the  Fransayes,  Wal- 
gatchka shall  be  husband-bear  to  Allaye,  that  day  she  lifts 
the  door-curtain  of  his  tent — " 

He  rolled  his  eyes  and  looked  around.  Alvina  watched 
him. 

"  But  I  might  be  afraid  of  a  husband-bear,"  she  said. 

Geoffrey  got  on  to  his  feet. 

"  By  the  Manitou,"  he  said,  "  the  head  of  the  bear  Wal- 
gatchka is  humble  — "  here  Geoffrey  bowed  his  head  — "  his 
teeth  are  as  soft  as  lilies  —  "  here  he  opened  his  mouth  and 
put  his  finger  on  his  small  close  teeth  — "  his  hands  are  as 
soft  as  bees  that  stroke  a  flower  — "  here  he  spread  his  hands 
and  went  and  suddenly  flopped  on  his  knees  beside  Alvina, 
showing  his  hands  and  his  teeth  still,  and  rolling  his  eyes. 
"  Allaye  can  have  no  fear  at  all  of  the  bear  Walgatchka,"  he 
said,  looking  up  at  her  comically. 

Ciccio,  who  had  been  watching  and  slightly  grinning,  here 
rose  to  his  feet  and  took  Geoffrey  by  the  shoulder,  pulling 
him  up. 

"Basta!"  he  said.  "Tu  es  saoul.  You  are  drunk,  my 
Gigi.  Get  up.  How  are  you  going  to  ride  to  Mansfield, 
hein  ?  —  great  beast." 

"  Ciccio,"  said  Geoffrey  solemnly.  "  I  love  thee,  I  love  thee 
as  a  brother,  and  also  more.  I  love  thee  as  a  brother,  my 
Ciccio,  as  thou  knowest.  But—  '  and  he  puffed  fiercely 
— "  I  am  the  slave  of  Allaye,  I  am  the  tame  bear  of  Allaye." 

"  Get  up,"  said  Ciccio,  "  get  up !  Per  bacco !  She  doesn't 
want  a  tame  bear."  He  smiled  down  on  his  friend. 

Geoffrey  rose  to  his  feet  and  flung  his  arms  round  Ciccio. 

"  Cic',"  he  besought  him.  "  Cic' —  I  love  thee  as  a  brother. 
But  let  me  be  the  tame  bear  of  Allaye,  let  me  be  the  gentle 
bear  of  Allaye." 


THE  FALL  OF  MANCHESTER  HOUSE          257 

"All  right,"  said  Ciccio.  "Thou  art  the  tame  bear  of 
Allaye." 

Geoffrey  strained  Ciccio  to  his  breast. 

"  Thank  you !     Thank  you !     Salute  me,  my  own  friend." 

And  Ciccio  kissed  him  on  either  cheek.  Whereupon 
Geoffrey  immediately  flopped  on  his  knees  again  before  Alvina, 
and  presented  her  his  broad,  rich-coloured  cheek. 

"  Salute  your  bear,  Allaye,"  he  cried.  "  Salute  your  slave, 
the  tame  bear  Walgatchka,  who  is  a  wild  bear  for  all  except 
Allaye  and  his  brother  Pacohuila  the  Puma."  Geoffrey 
growled  realistically  as  a  wild  bear  as  he  kneeled  before 
Alvina,  presenting  his  cheek. 

Alvina  looked  at  Ciccio,  who  stood  above,  watching.  Then 
she  lightly  kissed  him  on  the  cheek,  and  said: 

"  Won't  you  go  to  bed  and  sleep?  " 

Geoffrey  staggered  to  his  feet,  shaking  his  head. 

"No  —  no-  he  said.  "No  —  no!  Walgatchka  must 
travel  to  the  tent  of  Kishwegin,  to  the  Camp  of  the  Tawaras." 

"  Not  tonight,  man  brave"  said  Ciccio.  "  Tonight  we  stay 
here,  hein.  Why  separate,  hein?  —  frere?  " 

Geoffrey  again  clasped  Ciccio  in  his  arms. 

"  Pacohuila  and  Walgatchka  are  blood-brothers,  two 
bodies,  one  blood.  One  blood,  in  two  bodies;  one  stream, 
in  two  valleys:  one  lake,  between  two  mountains." 

Here  Geoffrey  gazed  with  large,  heavy  eyes  on  Ciccio. 
Alvina  brought  a  candle  and  lighted  it. 

"  You  will  manage  in  the  one  room?  "  she  said.  "  I  will 
give  you  another  pillow." 

She  led  the  way  upstairs.  Geoffrey  followed,  heavily. 
Then  Ciccio.  On  the  landing  Alvina  gave  them  the  pillow 
and  the  candle,  smiled,  bade  them  good-night  in  a  whisper, 
and  went  downstairs  again.  She  cleared  away  the  supper 
and  carried  away  all  glasses  and  bottles  from  the  drawing- 
room.  Then  she  washed  up,  removing  all  traces  of  the  feast. 
The  cards  she  restored  to  their  old  mahogany  box.  Man- 
chester House  looked  itself  again. 

She  turned  off  the  gas  at  the  meter,  and  went  upstairs  to 
bed.  From  the  far  room  she  could  hear  the  gentle,  but 
profound  vibrations  of  Geoffrey's  snoring.  She  was  tired 
after  her  day:  too  tired  to  trouble  about  anything  any  more. 

But  in  the  morning  she  was  first  downstairs.     She  heard 


258  THE  LOST  GIRL 

Miss  Pinnegar,  and  hurried.  Hastily  she  opened  the  win- 
dows and  doors  to  drive  away  the  smell  of  beer  and  smoke. 
She  heard  the  men  rumbling  in  the  bath-room.  And  quickly 
she  prepared  breakfast  and  made  a  fire.  Mrs.  Rollings 
would  not  appear  till  later  in  the  day.  At  a  quarter  to 
seven  Miss  Pinnegar  came  down,  and  went  into  the  scullery 
to  make  her  tea. 

"Did  both  the  men  stay?  "  she  asked. 

"  Yes,  they  both  slept  in  the  end  room,"  said  Alvina. 

Miss  Pinnegar  said  no  more,  but  padded  with  her  tea  and 
her  boiled  egg  into  the  living  room.  In  the  morning  she 
was  wordless. 

Ciccio  came  down,  in  his  shirt-sleeves  as  usual,  but  wearing 
a  collar.  He  greeted  Miss  Pinnegar  politely. 

"  Good-morning !  "  she  said,  and  went  on  with  her  tea. 

Geoffrey  appeared.  Miss  Pinnegar  glanced  once  at  him, 
sullenly,  and  briefly  answered  his  good-morning.  Then  she 
went  on  with  her  egg,  slow  and  persistent  in  her  movements, 
mum. 

The  men  went  out  to  attend  to  Geoffrey's  bicycle.  The 
morning  was  slow  and  grey,  obscure.  As  they  pumped  up 
the  tires,  they  heard  some  one  padding  behind.  Miss  Pinnegar 
came  and  unbolted  the  yard  door,  but  ignored  their  presence. 
Then  they  saw  her  return  and  slowly  mount  the  outer  stair- 
ladder,  which  went  up  to  the  top  floor.  Two  minutes  after- 
wards they  were  startled  by  the  irruption  of  the  work-girls. 
As  for  the  work-girls,  they  gave  quite  loud,  startled  squeals, 
suddenly  seeing  the  two  men  on  their  right  hand,  in  the 
obscure  morning.  And  they  lingered  on  the  stair-way  to 
gaze  in  rapt  curiosity,  poking  and  whispering,  until  Miss 
Pinnegar  appeared  overhead,  and  sharply  rang  a  bell  which 
hung  beside  the  entrance  door  of  the  workrooms. 

After  which  excitements  Geoffrey  and  Ciccio  went  in  to 
breakfast,  which  Alvina  had  prepared. 

"  You  have  done  it  all,  eh?  "  said  Ciccio,  glancing  round. 

"  Yes.     I've  made  breakfast  for  years,  now,"  said  Alvina. 

"Not  many  more  times  here,  eh?  "  he  said,  smiling  signifi- 
cantly. 

"  I  hope  not,"  said  Alvina. 

Ciccio  sat  down  almost  like  a  husband  —  as  if  it  were  his 
right. 


THE  FALL  OF  MANCHESTER  HOUSE          259 

Geoffrey  was  very  quiet  this  morning.  He  ate  his  break- 
fast, and  rose  to  go. 

"  I  shall  see  you  soon,"  he  said,  smiling  sheepishly  and 
bowing  to  Alvina.  Ciccio  accompanied  him  to  the  street. 

When  Ciccio  returned,  Alvina  was  once  more  washing 
dishes. 

"What  time  shall  we  go?  "  he  said. 

"  We'll  catch  the  one  train.  I  must  see  the  lawyer  this 
morning." 

"  And  what  shall  you  say  to  him?  " 

"  I  shall  tell  him  to  sell  everything  — " 

"And  marry  me?  " 

She  started,  and  looked  at  him. 

"  You  don't  want  to  marry,  do  you?  "  she  said. 

"Yes,  I  do." 

"  Wouldn't  you  rather  wait,  and  see  — " 

"What?"  he  said. 

"  See  if  there  is  any  money." 

He  watched  her  steadily,  and  his  brow  darkened. 

"Why?"  he  said. 

She  began  to  tremble. 

"  You'd  like  it  better  if  there  was  money." 

A  slow,  sinister  smile  came  on  his  mouth.  His  eyes  never 
smiled,  except  to  Geoffrey,  when  a  flood  of  warm,  laughing 
light  sometimes  suffused  them. 

"You  think  I  should!" 

"Yes.     It's  true,  isn't  it?     You  would!  " 

He  turned  his  eyes  aside,  and  looked  at  her  hands  as  she 
washed  the  forks.  They  trembled  slightly.  Then  he  looked 
back  at  her  eyes  again,  that  were  watching  him  large  and 
wistful  and  a  little  accusing. 

His  impudent  laugh  came  on  his  face. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  it  is  always  better  if  there  is  money." 
He  put  his  hand  on  her,  and  she  winced.  "  But  I  marry 
you  for  love,  you  know.  You  know  what  love  is — "  And 
he  put  his  arms  round  her,  and  laughed  down  into  her  face. 

She  strained  away. 

"  But  you  can  have  love  without  marriage,"  she  said. 
"  You  know  that." 

"All  right!     All  right!     Give  me  love,  eh?     I  want  that." 

She  struggled  against  him. 


260  THE  LOST  GIRL 

"  But  not  now,"  she  said. 

She  saw  the  light  in  his  eyes  fix  determinedly,  and  he 
nodded. 

"Now!"  he  said.     "Now!" 

His  yellow-tawny  eyes  looked  down  into  hers,  alien  and 
overbearing. 

"  I  can't,"  she  struggled.     "  I  can't  now." 

He  laughed  in  a  sinister  way:  yet  with  a  certain  warm- 
heartedness. 

"  Come  to  that  big  room  — "  he  said. 

Her  face  flew  fixed  into  opposition. 

"  I  can't  now,  really,"  she  said  grimly. 

His  eyes  looked  down  at  hers.  Her  eyes  looked  back  at 
him,  hard  and  cold  and  determined.  They  remained  motion- 
less for  some  seconds.  Then,  a  stray  wisp  of  her  hair  catch- 
ing his  attention,  desire  filled  his  heart,  warm  and  full, 
obliterating  his  anger  in  the  combat.  For  a  moment  he 
softened.  He  saw  her  hardness  becoming  more  assertive, 
and  he  wavered  in  sudden  dislike,  and  almost  dropped  her. 
Then  again  the  desire  flushed  his  heart,  his  smile  became 
reckless  of  her,  and  he  picked  her  right  up. 

"  Yes,"  he  said.     "  Now." 

For  a  second,  she  struggled  frenziedly.  But  almost  in- 
stantly she  recognized  how  much  stronger  he  was,  and  she 
was  still,  mute  and  motionless  with  anger.  White,  and  mute, 
and  motionless,  she  was  taken  to  her  room.  And  at  the 
back  of  her  mind  all  the  time  she  wondered  at  his  deliberate 
recklessness  of  her.  Recklessly,  he  had  his  will  of  her  — 
but  deliberately,  and  thoroughly,  not  rushing  to  the  issue, 
but  taking  everything  he  wanted  of  her,  progressively,  and 
fully,  leaving  her  stark,  with  nothing,  nothing  of  herself  — 
nothing. 

When  she  could  lie  still  she  turned  away  from  him,  still 
mute.  And  he  lay  with  his  arms  over  her,  motionless.  Noises 
went  on,  in  the  street,  overhead  in  the  workroom.  But  theirs 
was  complete  silence. 

At  last  he  rose  and  looked  at  her. 

"  Love  is  a  fine  thing,  Allaye,"  he  said. 

She  lay  mute  and  unmoving.  He  approached,  laid  his 
hand  on  her  breast,  and  kissed  her. 

"  Love,"  he  said,  asserting,  and  laughing. 

But   still    she   was   completely   mute   and   motionless.     He 


THE  FALL  OF  MANCHESTER  HOUSE          261 

threw   bedclothes   over   her   and   went   downstairs,   whistling 
softly. 

She  knew  she  would  have  to  break  her  own  trance  of 
obstinacy.  So  she  snuggled  down  into  the  bedclothes,  shiver- 
ing deliciously,  for  her  skin  had  become  chilled.  She  didn't 
care  a  bit,  really,  about  her  own  downfall.  She  snuggled 
deliciously  in  the  sheets,  and  admitted  to  herself  that  she 
loved  him.  In  truth,  she  loved  him  —  and  she  was  laughing 
to  herself. 

Luxuriously,  she  resented  having  to  get  up  and  tackle  her 
heap  of  broken  garments.  But  she  did  it.  She  took  other 
clothes,  adjusted  her  hair,  tied  on  her  apron,  and  went  down- 
stairs once  more.  She  could  not  find  Ciccio:  he  had  gone 
out.  A  stray  cat  darted  from  the  scullery,  and  broke  a 
plate  in  her  leap.  Alvina  found  her  washing-up  water  cold. 
She  put  on  more,  and  began  to  dry  her  dishes. 

Ciccio  returned  shortly,  and  stood  in  the  doorway  looking 
at  her.  She  turned  to  him,  unexpectedly  laughing. 

"What  do  you  think  of  yourself?  "  she  laughed. 

"Well,"  he  said,  with  a  little  nod,  and  a  furtive  look  of 
triumph  about  him,  evasive.  He  went  past  her  and  into 
the  room.  Her  inside  burned  with  love  for  him:  so  elusive, 
so  beautiful,  in  his  silent  passing  out  of  her  sight.  She 
wiped  her  dishes  happily.  Why  was  she  so  absurdly  happy, 
she  asked  herself?  And  why  did  she  still  fight  so  hard 
against  the  sense  of  his  dark,  unseizable  beauty?  Unseizable, 
for  ever  unseizable!  That  made  her  almost  his  slave.  She 
fought  against  her  own  desire  to  fall  at  his  feet.  Ridiculous 
to  be  so  happy. 

She  sang  to  herself  as  she  went  about  her  work  down- 
stairs. Then  she  went  upstairs,  to  do  the  bedrooms  and 
pack  her  bag.  At  ten  o'clock  she  was  to  go  to  the  family 
lawyer. 

She  lingered  over  her  possessions:  what  to  take,  and  what 
not  to  take.  And  so  doing  she  wasted  her  time.  It  was 
already  ten  o'clock  when  she  hurried  downstairs.  He  was 
sitting  quite  still,  waiting.  He  looked  up  at  her. 

"  Now  I  must  hurry,"  she  said.  "  I  don't  think  I  shall  be 
more  than  an  hour." 

He  put  on  his  hat  and  went  out  with  her. 

"  I  shall  tell  the  lawyer  I  am  engaged  to  you.  Shall  I?  " 
she  asked. 


262  THE  LOST  GIRL 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "Tell  him  what  you  like."  He  was  in- 
different. 

"Because,"  said  Alvina  gaily,  "we  can  please  ourselves 
what  we  do,  whatever  we  say.  I  shall  say  we  think  of  get- 
ting married  in  the  summer,  when  we  know  each  other  better, 
and  going  to  Italy." 

"  Why  shall  you  say  all  that?  "  said  Ciccio. 

"  Because  I  shall  have  to  give  some  account  of  myself,  or 
they'll  make  me  do  something  I  don't  want  to  do.  You 
might  come  to  the  lawyer's  with  me,  will  you?  He's  an 
awfully  nice  old  man.  Then  he'd  believe  in  you." 

But  Ciccio  shook  his  head. 

"  No,"  he  said.     "  I  shan't  go.     He  doesn't  want  to  see  me" 

"  Well,  if  you  don't  want  to.  But  I  remember  your  name, 
Francesco  Marasca,  and  I  remember  Pescocalascio." 

Ciccio  heard  in  silence,  as  they  walked  the  half-empty, 
Monday-morning  street  of  Woodhouse.  People  kept  nodding 
to  Alvina.  Some  hurried  inquisitively  across  to  speak  to 
her  and  look  at  Ciccio.  Ciccio  however  stood  aside  and 
turned  his  back. 

"  Oh  yes,"  Alvina  said.  "  I  am  staying  with  friends,  here 
and  there,  for  a  few  weeks.  No,  I  don't  know  when  I  shall 
be  back.  Good-bye!  " 

"  You're  looking  well,  Alvina,"  people  said  to  her.  "  I 
think  you're  looking  wonderful.  A  change  does  you  good." 

"  It  does,  doesn't  it,"  said  Alvina  brightly.  And  she  was 
pleased  she  was  looking  well. 

"  Well,  good-bye  for  a  minute,"  she  said,  glancing  smil- 
ing into  his  eyes  and  nodding  to  him,  as  she  left  him  at  the 
gate  of  the  lawyer's  house,  by  the  ivy-covered  wall. 

The  lawyer  was  a  little  man,  all  grey.  Alvina  had  known 
him  since  she  was  a  child:  but  rather  as  an  official  than  an 
individual.  She  arrived  all  smiling  in  his  room.  He  sat 
down  and  scrutinized  her  sharply,  officially,  before  beginning. 

"  Well,  Miss  Houghton,  and  what  news  have  you?  " 

"  I  don't  think  I've  any,  Mr.  Beeby.  I  came  to  you  for 
news." 

"  Ah !  "  said  the  lawyer,  and  he  fingered  a  paper-weight 
that  covered  a  pile  of  papers.  "  I'm  afraid  there  is  nothing 
very  pleasant,  unfortunately.  And  nothing  very  unpleasant 
either,  for  that  matter." 


THE  FALL  OF  MANCHESTER  HOUSE          263 

He  gave  her  a  shrewd  little  smile. 

"  Is  the  will  proved?  " 

"  Not  yet.  But  I  expect  it  will  be  through  in  a  few  days' 
time." 

"  And  are  all  the  claims  in?  " 

"  Yes.  I  think  so.  I  think  so !  "  And  again  he  laid  his 
hand  on  the  pile  of  papers  under  the  paper-weight,  and  ran 
through  the  edges  with  the  tips  of  his  fingers. 

"  All  those?  "  said  Alvina. 

"  Yes,"  he  said  quietly.     It  sounded  ominous. 

"Many!  "  said  Alvina. 

"A  fair  amount!  A  fair  amount!  Let  me  show  you  a 
statement." 

He  rose  and  brought  her  a  paper.  She  made  out,  with  the 
lawyer's  help,  that  the  claims  against  her  father's  property 
exceeded  the  gross  estimate  of  his  property  by  some  seven 
hundred  pounds. 

"  Does  it  mean  we  owe  seven  hundred  pounds?  "  she  asked. 

"That  is  only  on  the  estimate  of  the  property.  It  might, 
of  course,  realize  much  more,  when  sold  —  or  it  might  realize 
less." 

"  How  awful !  "  said  Alvina,  her  courage  sinking. 

"  Unfortunate !  Unfortunate !  However,  I  don't  think  the 
realization  of  the  property  would  amount  to  less  than  the 
estimate.  I  don't  think  so." 

"  But  even  then,"  said  Alvina.  "  There  is  sure  to  be  some- 
thing owing  — " 

She  saw  herself  saddled  with  her  father's  debts. 

"  I'm  afraid  so,"  said  the  lawyer. 

"And  then  what?  "  said  Alvina. 

"  Oh  —  the  creditors  will  have  to  be  satisfied  with  a  little 
less  than  they  claim,  I  suppose.  Not  a  very  great  deal,  you 
see.  I  don't  expect  they  will  complain  a  great  deal.  In 
fact,  some  of  them  will  be  less  badly  off  than  they  feared. 
No,  on  that  score  we  need  not  trouble  further.  Useless  if 
we  do,  anyhow.  But  now,  about  yourself.  Would  you  like 
me  to  try  to  compound  with  the  creditors,  so  that  you  could 
have  some  sort  of  provision?  They  are  mostly  people  who 
know  you,  know  your  condition:  and  I  might  try  — 
Try  what?  "  said  Alvina. 

"To  make  some  sort  of  compound.     Perhaps  you  might 


264  THE  LOST  GIRL 

retain  a  lease  of  Miss  Pinnegar's  workrooms.  Perhaps  even 
something  might  be  done  about  the  cinematograph.  What 
would  you  like—?" 

Alvina  sat  still  in  her  chair,  looking  through  the  window 
at  the  ivy  sprays,  and  the  leaf  buds  on  the  lilac.  She  felt 
she  could  not,  she  could  not  cut  off  every  resource.  In  her 
own  heart  she  had  confidently  expected  a  few  hundred  pounds: 
even  a  thousand  or  more.  And  that  would  make  her  something 
of  a  catch,  to  people  who  had  nothing.  But  now!  — nothing! 
—  nothing  at  the  back  of  her  but  her  hundred  pounds.  When 
that  was  gone — ! 

In  her  dilemma  she  looked  at  the  lawyer. 

"  You  didn't  expect  it  would  be  quite  so  bad?  "  he  said. 

"  I  think  I  didn't,"  she  said. 

"No.     Well  —  it  might  have  been  worse." 

Again  he  waited.     And  again  she  looked  at  him  vacantly. 

"  What  do  you  think?  "  he  said. 

For  answer,  she  only  looked  at  him  with  wide  eyes. 

"  Perhaps  you  would  rather  decide  later." 

"  No,"  she  said.     "  No.     It's  no  use  deciding  later." 

The  lawyer  watched  her  with  curious  eyes,  his  hand  beat 
a  little  impatiently. 

"  I  will  do  my  best,"  he  said,  "  to  get  what  I  can  for  you." 

"Oh  well!  "  she  said.  "Better  let  everything  go.  I  don't 
want  to  hang  on.  Don't  bother  about  me  at  all.  I  shall  go 
away,  anyhow." 

"You  will  go  away?  "  said  the  lawyer,  and  he  studied  his 
finger-nails. 

"  Yes.     I  shan't  stay  here." 

"  Oh !  And  may  I  ask  if  you  have  any  definite  idea,  where 
you  will  go?  " 

"  I've  got  an  engagement  as  pianist,  with  a  travelling 
theatrical  company." 

"  Oh  indeed !  "  said  the  lawyer,  scrutinizing  her  sharply. 
She  stared  away  vacantly  out  of  the  window.  He  took  to 
the  attentive  study  of  his  finger-nails  once  more.  "  And  at 
a  sufficient  salary?  " 

"  Quite  sufficient,  thank  you,"  said  Alvina. 

"Oh!  Well!  Well  now!—'  He  fidgetted  a  little. 
"  You  see,  we  are  all  old  neighbours  and  connected  with 
your  father  for  many  years.  We  —  that  is  the  persons  in- 
terested, and  myself  —  would  not  like  to  think  that  you  were 


THE  FALL  OF  MANCHESTER  HOUSE  265 

driven  out  of  Woodhouse  —  er  —  er  —  destitute.  If  —  er  — 
we  could  come  to  some  composition  —  make  some  arrangement 
that  would  be  agreeable  to  you,  and  would,  in  some  measure, 
secure  you  a  means  of  livelihood " 

He  watched  Alvina  with  sharp  blue  eyes.  Alvina  looked 
back  at  him,  still  vacantly. 

"No  — thanks  awfully!"  she  said.  "But  don't  bother. 
I'm  going  away." 

"With  the  travelling  theatrical  company?  " 

"  Yes." 

The  lawyer  studied  his  finger-nails  intensely. 

"Well,"  he  said,  feeling  with  a  finger-tip  an  imaginary 
roughness  of  one  nail-edge.  "  Well,  in  that  case  —  In  that 
case  —  Supposing  you  have  made  an  irrevocable  decision  — " 

He  looked  up  at  her  sharply.  She  nodded  slowly,  like  a 
porcelain  mandarin. 

"  In  that  case,"  he  said,  "  we  must  proceed  with  the  valua- 
tion and  the  preparation  for  the  sale." 

"  Yes,"  she  said  faintly. 

"You  realize,"  he  said,  "that  everything  in  Manchester 
House,  except  your  private  personal  property,  and  that  of 
Miss  Pinnegar,  belongs  to  the  claimants,  your  father's  credi- 
tors, and  may  not  be  removed  from  the  house." 

"  Yes,"  she  said. 

"And  it  will  be  necessary  to  make  an  account  of  every- 
thing in  the  house.  So  if  you  and  Miss  Pinnegar  will  put 
your  possessions  strictly  apart  —  But  I  shall  see  Miss  Pinne- 
gar during  the  course  of  the  day.  Would  you  ask  her  to  call 
about  seven —  I  think  she  is  free  then — " 

Alvina  sat  trembling. 

"  I  shall  pack  my  things  today,"  she  said. 

"  Of  course,"  said  the  lawyer,  "  any  little  things  to  which 
you  may  be  attached  the  claimants  would  no  doubt  wish  you 
to  regard  as  your  own.  For  anything  of  greater  value  — 
your  piano,  for  example  —  I  should  have  to  make  a  personal 
request  — ' 

"  Oh,  I  don't  want  anything  — "  said  Alvina. 

"No?  Well!  You  will  see.  You  will  be  here  a  few 
days?  " 

"No,"  said  Alvina.     "I'm  going  away  today." 

"Today!     Is  that  also  irrevocable?  " 

"Yes.     I  must  go  this  afternoon." 


266  THE  LOST  GIRL 

"  On  account  of  your  engagement?  May  I  ask  where  your 
company  is  performing  this  week?  Far  away?  " 

"Mansfield!" 

"  Oh !  Well  then,  in  case  I  particularly  wished  to  see  you, 
you  could  come  over?  " 

"  If  necessary,"  said  Alvina.  "  But  I  don't  want  to  come 
to  Woodhouse  unless  it  is  necessary.  Can't  we  write?  " 

"  Yes  —  certainly !  Certainly !  —  most  things !  Certainly ! 
And  now — " 

He  went  into  certain  technical  matters,  and  Alvina  signed 
some  documents.  At  last  she  was  free  to  go.  She  had  been 
almost  an  hour  in  the  room. 

"  Well,  good-morning,  Miss  Houghton.  You  will  hear  from 
me,  and  I  from  you.  I  wish  you  a  pleasant  experience  in  your 
new  occupation.  You  are  not  leaving  Woodhouse  for  ever." 

"  Good-bye !  "  she  said.     And  she  hurried  to  the  road. 

Try  as  she  might,  she  felt  as  if  she  had  had  a  blow  which 
knocked  her  down.  She  felt  she  had  had  a  blow. 

At  the  lawyer's  gate  she  stood  a  minute.  There,  across  a 
little  hollow,  rose  the  cemetery  hill.  There  were  her  graves: 
her  mother's,  Miss  Frost's,  her  father's.  Looking,  she  made 
out  the  white  cross  at  Miss  Frost's  grave,  the  grey  stone  at 
her  parents'.  Then  she  turned  slowly,  under  the  church  wall, 
back  to  Manchester  House. 

She  felt  humiliated.  She  felt  she  did  not  want  to  see  any- 
body at  all.  She  did  not  want  to  see  Miss  Pinnegar,  nor  the 
Natcha-Kee-Tawaras :  and  least  of  all,  Ciccio.  She  felt 
strange  in  Woodhouse,  almost  as  if  the  ground  had  risen 
from  under  her  feet  and  hit  her  over  the  mouth.  The  fact 
that  Manchester  House  and  its  very  furniture  was  under  seal 
to  be  sold  on  behalf  of  her  father's  creditors  made  her  feel 
as  if  all  her  Woodhouse  life  had  suddenly  gone  smash.  She 
loathed  the  thought  of  Manchester  House.  She  loathed  stay- 
ing another  minute  in  it. 

And  yet  she  did  not  want  to  go  to  the  Natcha-Kee-Tawaras 
either.  The  church  clock  above  her  clanged  eleven.  She 
ought  to  take  the  twelve-forty  train  to  Mansfield.  Yet  instead 
of  going  home  she  turned  off  down  the  alley  towards  the 
fields  and  the  brook. 

How  many  times  had  she  gone  that  road!  How  many 
times  had  she  seen  Miss  Frost  bravely  striding  home  that 
way,  from  her  music-pupils.  How  many  years  had  she 


THE  FALL  OF  MANCHESTER  HOUSE    267 

noticed  a  particular  wild  cherry-tree  come  into  blossom,  a 
particular  bit  of  black-thorn  scatter  its  whiteness  in  among 
the  pleached  twigs  of  a  hawthorn  hedge.  How  often,  how 
many  springs  had  Miss  Frost  come  home  with  a  bit  of  this 
black-thorn  in  her  hand! 

Alvina  did  not  want  to  go  to  Mansfield  that  afternoon. 
She  felt  insulted.  She  knew  she  would  be  much  cheaper  in 
Madame's  eyes.  She  knew  her  own  position  with  the  troupe 
would  be  humiliating.  It  would  be  openly  a  little  humiliat- 
ing. But  it  would  be  much  more  maddeningly  humiliating 
to  stay  in  Woodhouse  and  experience  the  full  flavour  of 
Woodhouse's  calculated  benevolence.  She  hardly  knew 
which  was  worse:  the  cool  look  of  insolent  half-contempt, 
half-satisfaction  with  which  Madame  would  receive  the  news 
of  her  financial  downfall,  or  the  officious  patronage  which 
ehe  would  meet  from  the  Woodhouse  magnates.  She  knew 
exactly  how  Madame's  black  eyes  would  shine,  how  her 
mouth  would  curl  with  a  sneering,  slightly  triumphant  smile, 
as  she  heard  the  news.  And  she  could  hear  the  bullying 
tone  in  which  Henry  Wagstaff  would  dictate  the  Woodhouse 
benevolence  to  her.  She  wanted  to  go  away  from  them  all  — 
from  them  all  —  for  ever. 

Even  from  Ciccio.  For  she  felt  he  insulted  her  too. 
Subtly,  they  all  did  it.  They  had  regard  for  her  possibili- 
ties as  an  heiress.  Five  hundred,  even  two  hundred  pounds 
would  have  made  all  the  difference.  Useless  to  deny  it. 
Even  to  Ciccio.  Ciccio  would  have  had  a  lifelong  respect  for 
her,  if  she  had  come  with  even  so  paltry  a  sum  as  two  hun- 
dred pounds.  Now  she  had  nothing,  he  would  coolly  with- 
hold this  respect.  She  felt  he  might  jeer  at  her.  And  she 
could  not  get  away  from  this  feeling. 

Mercifully  she  had  the  bit  of  ready  money.  And  she  had 
a  few  trinkets  which  might  be  sold.  Nothing  else.  Merci- 
fully, for  the  mere  moment,  she  was  independent. 

Whatever  else  she  did,  she  must  go  back  and  pack.  She 
must  pack  her  two  boxes,  and  leave  them  ready.  For  she 
felt  that  once  she  had  left,  she  could  never  come  back  to 
Woodhouse  again.  If  England  had  cliffs  all  round  —  why, 
when  there  was  nowhere  else  to  go  and  no  getting  beyond, 
she  could  walk  over  one  of  the  cliffs.  Meanwhile,  she  had 
her  short  run  before  her.  She  banked  hard  on  her  inde- 
pendence. 


268  THE  LOST  GIRL 

So  she  turned  back  to  the  town.  She  would  not  be  able 
to  take  the  twelve-forty  train,  for  it  was  already  mid-day. 
But  she  was  glad.  She  wanted  some  time  to  herself.  She 
would  send  Ciccio  on.  Slowly  she  climbed  the  familiar  hill 
—  slowly  —  and  rather  bitterly.  She  felt  her  native  place 
insulted  her:  and  she  felt  the  Natchas  insulted  her.  In  the 
midst  of  the  insult  she  remained  isolated  upon  herself,  and 
she  wished  to  be  alone. 

She  found  Ciccio  waiting  at  the  end  of  the  yard:  eternally 
waiting,  it  seemed.  He  was  impatient. 

"  You've  been  a  long  time,"  he  said. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered. 

"We  shall  have  to  make  haste  to  catch  the  train." 

"  I  can't  go  by  this  train.  I  shall  have  to  come  on  later. 
You  can  just  eat  a  mouthful  of  lunch,  and  go  now." 

They  went  indoors.  Miss  Pinnegar  had  not  yet  come  down. 
Mrs.  Rollings  was  busily  peeling  potatoes. 

"  Mr.  Marasca  is  going  by  the  train,  he'll  have  to  have  a 
little  cold  meat,"  said  Alvina.  "  Would  you  mind  putting  it 
ready  while  I  go  upstairs?  " 

"  Sharpses  and  Fullbankses  sent  them  bills,"  said  Mrs. 
Rollings.  Alvina  opened  them,  and  turned  pale.  It  was 
thirty  pounds,  the  total  funeral  expenses.  She  had  completely 
forgotten  them. 

"And  Mr.  Atterwell  wants  to  know  what  you'd  like  put  on 
th'  headstone  for  your  father  —  if  you'd  write  it  down." 

"All  right." 

Mrs.  Rollings  popped  on  the  potatoes  for  Miss  Pinnegar's 
dinner,  and  spread  the  cloth  for  Ciccio.  When  he  was  eating, 
Miss  Pinnegar  came  in.  She  inquired  for  Alvina  —  and  went 
upstairs. 

"Have  you  had  your  dinner?"  she  said.  For  there  was 
Alvina  sitting  writing  a  letter. 

"  I'm  going  by  a  later  train,"  said  Alvina. 

"Both  of  you?" 

"No.     He's  going  now." 

Miss  Pinnegar  came  downstairs  again,  and  went  through 
to  the  scullery.  When  Alvina  came  down,  she  returned  to 
the  living  room. 

"  Give  this  letter  to  Madame,"  Alvina  said  to  Ciccio.  "  I 
shall  be  at  the  hall  by  seven  tonight.  I  shall  go  straight 
there." 


THE  FALL  OF  MANCHESTER  HOUSE          269 

"  Why  can't  you  come  now?  "  said  Ciccio. 

"  I  can't  possibly,"  said  Alvina.  "  The  lawyer  has  just 
told  me  father's  debts  come  to  much  more  than  everything 
is  worth.  Nothing  is  ours  —  not  even  the  plate  you're  eating 
from.  Everything  is  under  seal  to  be  sold  to  pay  off  what  is 
owing.  So  I've  got  to  get  my  own  clothes  and  boots  to- 
gether, or  they'll  be  sold  with  the  rest.  Mr.  Beeby  wants 
you  to  go  round  at  seven  this  evening,  Miss  Pinnegar  —  before 
I  forget." 

"Really!"  gasped  Miss  Pinnegar.  "Really!  The  house 
and  the  furniture  and  everything  got  to  be  sold  up?  Then 
we're  on  the  streets!  I  can't  believe  it." 

"  So  he  told  me,"  said  Alvina. 

"  But  how  positively  awful,"  said  Miss  Pinnegar,  sinking 
motionless  into  a  chair. 

"  It's  not  more  than  I  expected,"  said  Alvina.  "  I'm  put- 
ting my  things  into  my  two  trunks,  and  I  shall  just  ask  Mrs. 
Slaney  to  store  them  for  me.  Then  I've  the  bag  I  shall  travel 
with." 

"  Really !  "  gasped  Miss  Pinnegar.  "  I  can't  believe  it ! 
And  when  have  we  got  to  get  out?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  think  there's  a  desperate  hurry.  They'll  take 
an  inventory  of  all  the  things,  and  we  can  live  on  here  till 
they're  actually  ready  for  the  sale." 

"And  when  will  that  be?" 

"  I  don't  know.     A  week  or  two." 

"  And  is  the  cinematograph  to  be  sold  the  same?  " 

"Yes  —  everything!  The  piano  —  even  mother's  por- 
trait — " 

"  It's  impossible  to  believe  it,"  said  Miss  Pinnegar.  "  It's 
impossible.  He  can  never  have  left  things  so  bad." 

"  Ciccio,"  said  Alvina.  "  You'll  really  have  to  go  if  you 
are  to  catch  the  train.  You'll  give  Madame  my  letter,  won't 
you?  I  should  hate  you  to  miss  the  train.  I  know  she  can't 
bear  me  already,  for  all  the  fuss  and  upset  I  cause." 

Ciccio  rose  slowly,  wiping  his  mouth. 

"  You'll  be  there  at  seven  o'clock?  "  he  said. 

"  At  the  theatre,"  she  replied. 

And  without  more  ado,  he  left. 

Mrs.  Rollings  came  in. 

"You've  heard?  "  said  Miss  Pinnegar  dramatically. 

"  I  heard  somethink,"  said  Mrs.  Rollings. 


270  THE  LOST  GIRL 

"  Sold  up !  Everything  to  be  sold  up.  Every  stick  and 
rag!  I  never  thought  I  should  live  to  see  the  day,"  said 
Miss  Pinnegar. 

"  You  might  almost  have  expected  it,"  said  Mrs.  Rollings. 
"  But  you're  all  right,  yourself,  Miss  Pinnegar.  Your  money 
isn't  with  his,  is  it?  " 

"No,"  said  Miss  Pinnegar.  "What  little  I  have  put  by 
is  safe.  But  it's  not  enough  to  live  on.  It's  not  enough  to 
keep  me,  even  supposing  I  only  live  another  ten  years.  If 
I  only  spend  a  pound  a  week,  it  costs  fifty-two  pounds  a 
year.  And  for  ten  years,  look  at  it,  it's  five  hundred  and 
twenty  pounds.  And  you  couldn't  say  less.  And  I  haven't 
half  that  amount.  I  never  had  more  than  a  wage,  you 
know.  Why,  Miss  Frost  earned  a  good  deal  more  than  I 
do.  And  she  didn't  leave  much  more  than  fifty.  Where's  the 
money  to  come  from  — ?  " 

"But  if  you've  enough  to  start  a  little  business — "  said 
Alvina. 

"Yes,  it's  what  I  shall  have  to  do.  It's  what  I  shall  have 
to  do.  And  then  what  about  you?  What  about  you?  " 

"  Oh,  don't  bother  about  me,"  said  Alvina. 

"Yes,  it's  all  very  well,  don't  bother.  But  when  you 
come  to  my  age,  you  know  you've  got  to  bother,  and  bother 
a  great  deal,  if  you're  not  going  to  find  yourself  in  a  posi- 
tion you'd  be  sorry  for.  You  have  to  bother.  And  you'll 
have  to  bother  before  you've  done." 

"  Sufficient  unto  the  day  is  the  evil  thereof,"  said  Alvina. 

"  Ha,  sufficient  for  a  good  many  days,  it  seems  to  me." 

Miss  Pinnegar  was  in  a  real  temper.  To  Alvina  this 
seemed  an  odd  way  of  taking  it.  The  three  women  sat  down 
to  an  uncomfortable  dinner  of  cold  meat  and  hot  potatoes 
and  warmed-up  pudding. 

"  But  whatever  you  do,"  pronounced  Miss  Pinnegar ; 
"whatever  you  do,  and  however  you  strive,  in  this  life,  you're 
knocked  down  in  the  end.  You're  always  knocked  down." 

"  It  doesn't  matter,"  said  Alvina,  "  if  it's  only  in  the  end. 
It  doesn't  matter  if  you've  had  your  life." 

"You've  never  had  your  life,  till  you're  dead,"  said  Miss 
Pinnegar.  "  And  if  you  work  and  strive,  you've  a  right  to  the 
fruits  of  your  work." 

"  It  doesn't  matter,"  said  Alvina  laconically,  "  so  long  as 
you've  enjoyed  working  and  striving." 


THE  FALL  OF  MANCHESTER  HOUSE          271 

But  Miss  Pinnegar  was  too  angry  to  be  philosophic.  Alvina 
knew  it  was  useless  to  be  either  angry  or  otherwise 
emotional.  None  the  less,  she  also  felt  as  if  she  had  been 
knocked  down.  And  she  almost  envied  poor  Miss  Pinnegar 
the  prospect  of  a  little,  day-by-day  haberdashery  shop  in 
Tamworth.  Her  own  problem  seemed  so  much  more  mena- 
cing. "Answer  or  die,"  said  the  Sphinx  of  fate.  Miss 
Pinnegar  could  answer  her  own  fate  according  to  its  ques- 
tion. She  could  say  "haberdashery  shop,"  and  her  sphinx 
.would  recognize  this  answer  as  true  to  nature,  and  would 
be  satisfied.  But  every  individual  has  his  own,  or  her  own 
fate,  and  her  own  sphinx.  Alvina's  sphinx  was  an  old,  deep 
thoroughbred,  she  would  take  no  mongrel  answers.  And  her 
thoroughbred  teeth  were  long  and  sharp.  To  Alvina,  the 
last  of  the  fantastic  but  pure-bred  race  of  Houghton,  the 
problem  of  her  fate  was  terribly  abstruse. 

The  only  thing  to  do  was  not  to  solve  it:  to  stray  on,  and 
answer  fate  with  whatever  came  into  one's  head.  No  good 
striving  with  fate.  Trust  to  a  lucky  shot,  or  take  the  conse- 
quences. 

"  Miss  Pinnegar,"  said  Alvina.  "  Have  we  any  money  in 
hand?  " 

"  There  is  about  twenty  pounds  in  the  bank.  It's  all  shown 
in  my  books,"  said  Miss  Pinnegar. 

"We  couldn't  take  it,  could  we?  " 

"  Every  penny  shows  in  the  books." 

Alvina  pondered  again. 

"Are  there  more  bills  to  come  in?  "  she  asked.  "I  mean 
my  bills.  Do  I  owe  anything?  " 

"  I  don't  think  you  do,"  said  Miss  Pinnegar. 

"  I'm  going  to  keep  the  insurance  money,  any  way.  They 
can  say  what  they  like.  I've  got  it,  and  I'm  going  to  keep 
it." 

"  Well,"  said  Miss  Pinnegar,  "  it's  not  my  business.  But 
there's  Sharps  and  Fullbanks  to  pay." 

"I'll  pay  those,"  said  Alvina.  "You  tell  Atterwell  what 
to  put  on  father's  stone.  How  much  does  it  cost?  " 

"  Five  shillings  a  letter,  you  remember." 

"  Well,  we'll  just  put  the  name  and  the  date.  How  much 
will  that  be?  James  Houghton.  Born  17th  January — " 

"  You'll  have  to  put  '  Also  of,' "  said  Miss  Pinnegar. 

"  Also    of  — "    said   Alvina.     "  One  —  two  —  three  —  four 


272  THE  LOST  GIRL 

—  five  —  six —  Six  letters — thirty  shillings.  Seems  an 
awful  lot  for  Also  of — " 

"  But  you  can't  leave  it  out,"  said  Miss  Pinnegar.  "  You 
can't  economize  over  that." 

"  I  begrudge  it,"  said  Alvina. 


CHAPTER  XI 

HONOURABLE   ENGAGEMENT 

FOR  days,  after  joining  the  Natcha-Kee-Tawaras,  Alvina 
was  very  quiet,  subdued,  and  rather  remote,  sensible  of  her 
humiliating  position  as  a  hanger-on.  They  none  of  them 
took  much  notice  of  her.  They  drifted  on,  rather  disjoint- 
edly.  The  cordiality,  the  joie  de  vivre  did  not  revive. 
Madame  was  a  little  irritable,  and  very  exacting,  and  inclined 
to  be  spiteful.  Ciccio  went  his  way  with  Geoffrey. 

In  the  second  week,  Madame  found  out  that  a  man  had 
been  surreptitiously  inquiring  about  them  at  their  lodgings, 
from  the  landlady  and  the  landlady's  blowsy  daughter.  It 
must  have  been  a  detective  —  some  shoddy  detective.  Madame 
waited.  Then  she  sent  Max  over  to  Mansfield,  on  some 
fictitious  errand.  Yes,  the  lousy-looking  dogs  of  detectives 
had  been  there  too,  making  the  most  minute  enquiries  as  to 
the  behaviour  of  the  Natcha-Kee-Tawaras,  what  they  did, 
how  their  sleeping  was  arranged,  how  Madame  addressed 
the  men,  what  attitude  the  men  took  towards  Alvina. 

Madame  waited  again.  And  again,  when  they  moved  to 
Doncaster,  the  same  two  mongrel-looking  fellows  were  lurk- 
ing in  the  street,  and  plying  the  inmates  of  their  lodging- 
house  with  questions.  All  the  Natchas  caught  sight  of  the 
men.  And  Madame  cleverly  wormed  out  of  the  righteous 
and  respectable  landlady  what  the  men  had  asked.  Once 
more  it  was  about  the  sleeping  accommodation  —  whether 
the  landlady  heard  anything  in  the  night  —  whether  she 
noticed  anything  in  the  bedrooms,  in  the  beds. 

No  doubt  about  it,  the  Natcha-Kee-Tawaras  were  under 
suspicion.  They  were  being  followed,  and  watched.  What 
for?  Madame  made  a  shrewd  guess.  "They  want  to  say 
we  are  immoral  foreigners,"  she  said. 

"  But  what  have  our  personal  morals  got  to  do  with 
them?  "  said  Max  angrily. 

"Yes  —  but  the  English!  They  are  so  pure,"  said 
Madame. 

273 


274  THE  LOST  GIRL 

"  You  know,"  said  Louis,  "  somebody  must  have  put  them 
up  to  it- 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Madame,  "  somebody  on  account  of 
Allaye." 

Alvina  went  white. 

"Yes,"  said  Geoffrey.  "White  Slave  Traffic!  Mr.  May 
said  it." 

Madame  slowly  noddded. 

"Mr.  May!  "  she  said.  "Mr.  May!  It  is  he.  He  knows 
all  about  morals  —  and  immorals.  Yes,  I  know.  Yes  — 
yes  —  yes!  He  suspects  all  our  immoral  doings,  mes 
braves.'9 

"  But  there  aren't  any,  except  mine,"  cried  Alvina,  pale  jto 
the  lips. 

"  You !  You !  There  you  are !  "  Madame  smiled  archly, 
and  rather  mockingly. 

"What  are  we  to  do?"  said  Max,  pale  on  the  cheek- 
bones. 

"  Curse  them !  Curse  them !  "  Louis  was  muttering,  in  his 
rolling  accent. 

"Wait,"  said  Madame.  "Wait.  They  will  not  do  any- 
thing to  us.  You  are  only  dirty  foreigners,  mes  braves. 
At  the  most  they  will  ask  us  only  to  leave  their  pure 
country." 

"  We  don't  interfere  with  none  of  them,"  cried  Max. 

"Curse  them,"  muttered  Louis. 

"  Never  mind,  mon  cher.  You  are  in  a  pure  country.  Let 
us  wait." 

"If  you  think  it's  me,"  said  Alvina,  "  I  can  go  away." 

"Oh,  my  dear,  you  are  only  the  excuse,"  said  Madame, 
smiling  indulgently  at  her.  "  Let  us  wait,  and  see." 

She  took  it  smilingly.  But  her  cheeks  were  white  as  paper, 
and  her  eyes  black  as  drops  of  ink,  with  anger. 

"Wait  and  see!  "  she  chanted  ironically.  "Wait  and  see! 
If  we  must  leave  the  dear  country  —  then  adieu!"  And  she 
gravely  bowed  to  an  imaginary  England. 

"  I  feel  it's  my  fault.  I  feel  I  ought  to  go  away,"  cried 
Alvina,  who  was  terribly  distressed,  seeing  Madame's 
glitter  and  pallor,  and  the  black  brows  of  the  men.  Never 
had  Ciccio's  brow  looked  so  ominously  black.  And  Alvina 
felt  it  was  all  her  fault.  Never  had  she  experienced  such 
a  horrible  feeling:  as  if  something  repulsive  were  creeping  on 


HONOURABLE  ENGAGEMENT       275 

her  from  behind.  Every  minute  of  these  weeks  was  a 
horror  to  her:  the  sense  of  the  low-down  dogs  of  detectives 
hanging  round,  sliding  behind  them,  trying  to  get  hold  of 
some  clear  proof  of  immorality  on  their  part.  And  then  — 
the  unknown  vengeance  of  the  authorities.  All  the  repul- 
sive secrecy,  and  all  the  absolute  power  of  the  police  authori- 
ties. The  sense  of  a  great  malevolent  power  which  had 
them  all  the  time  in  its  grip,  and  was  watching,  feeling, 
waiting  to  strike  the  morbid  blow:  the  sense  of  the  utter 
helplessness  of  individuals  who  were  not  even  accused,  only 
watched  and  enmeshed!  the  feeling  that  they,  the  Natcha- 
Kee-Tawaras,  herself  included,  must  be  monsters  of  hideous 
vice,  to  have  provoked  all  this:  and  yet  the  sane  knowledge 
that  they,  none  of  them,  were  monsters  of  vice;  this  was 
quite  killing.  The  sight  of  a  policeman  would  send  up 
Alvina's  heart  in  a  flame  of  fear,  agony;  yet  she  knew  she 
had  nothing  legally  to  be  afraid  of.  Every  knock  at  the 
door  was  horrible. 

She  simply  could  not  understand  it.  Yet  there  it  was: 
they  were  watched,  followed.  Of  that  there  was  no  ques- 
tion. And  all  she  could  imagine  was  that  the  troupe  was 
secretly  accused  of  White  Slave  Traffic  by  somebody  in  Wood- 
house.  Probably  Mr.  May  had  gone  the  round  of  the  benevo- 
lent magnates  of  Woodhouse,  concerning  himself  with  her 
virtue,  and  currying  favour  with  his  concern.  Of  this  she 
became  convinced,  that  it  was  concern  for  her  virtue  which 
had  started  the  whole  business:  and  that  the  first  instigator 
was  Mr.  May,  who  had  got  round  some  vulgar  magistrate  or 
County  Councillor. 

Madame  did  not  consider  Alvina's  view  very  seriously. 
She  thought  it  was  some  personal  malevolence  against  the 
Tawaras  themselves,  probably  put  up  by  some  other  profes- 
sionals, with  whom  Madame  was  not  popular. 

Be  that  as  it  may,  for  some  weeks  they  went  about  in  the 
shadow  of  this  repulsive  finger  which  was  following  after 
them,  to  touch  them  and  destroy  them  with  the  black  smear 
of  shame.  The  men  were  silent  and  inclined  to  be  sulky. 
They  seemed  to  hold  together.  They  seemed  to  be  united 
into  a  strong,  four-square  silence  and  tension.  They  kept 
to  themselves  —  and  Alvina  kept  to  herself  —  and  Madame 
kept  to  herself.  So  they  went  about. 

And   slowly   the   cloud   melted.     It   never  broke.     Alvina 


276  THE  LOST  GIRL 

felt  that  the  very  force  of  the  sullen,  silent  fearlessness  and 
fury  in  the  Tawaras  had  prevented  its  bursting.  Once 
there  had  been  a  weakening,  a  cringing,  they  would  all  have 
been  lost.  But  their  hearts  hardened  with  black,  indomitable 
anger.  And  the  cloud  melted,  it  passed  away.  There  was 
no  sign. 

Early  summer  was  now  at  hand.  Alvina  no  longer  felt 
at  home  with  the  Natchas.  While  the  trouble  was  hanging 
over,  they  seemed  to  ignore  her  altogether.  The  men  hardly 
spoke  to  her.  They  hardly  spoke  to  Madame,  for  that  mat- 
ter. They  kept  within  the  four-square  enclosure  of  them- 
selves. 

But  Alvina  felt  herself  particularly  excluded,  left  out. 
And  when  the  trouble  of  the  detectives  began  to  pass  off, 
and  the  men  became  more  cheerful  again,  wanted  her  to 
jest  and  be  familiar  with  them,  she  responded  verbally,  but 
in  her  heart  there  was  no  response. 

Madame  had  been  quite  generous  with  her.  She  allowed 
her  to  pay  for  her  room,  and  the  expense  of  travelling.  But 
she  had  her  food  with  the  rest.  Wherever  she  was,  Madame 
bought  the  food  for  the  party,  and  cooked  it  herself.  And 
Alvina  came  in  with  the  rest:  she  paid  no  board. 

She  waited,  however,  for  Madame  to  suggest  a  small  salary 
—  or  at  least,  that  the  troupe  should  pay  her  living  expenses. 
But  Madame  did  not  make  such  a  suggestion.  So  Alvina 
knew  that  she  was  not  very  badly  wanted.  And  she  guarded 
her  money,  and  watched  for  some  other  opportunity. 

It  became  her  habit  to  go  every  morning  to  the  public 
library  of  the  town  in  which  she  found  herself,  to  look 
through  the  advertisements:  advertisements  for  maternity 
nurses,  for  nursery  governesses,  pianists,  travelling  com- 
panions, even  ladies'  maids.  For  some  weeks  she  found 
nothing,  though  she  wrote  several  letters. 

One  morning  Ciccio,  who  had  begun  to  hang  round  her 
again,  accompanied  her  as  she  set  out  to  the  library.  But 
her  heart  was  closed  against  him. 

"Why  are  you  going  to  the  library?"  he  asked  her.  It 
was  in  Lancaster. 

"To  look  at  the  papers  and  magazines." 

"Ha-a!     To  find  a  job,  eh?  " 

His  cuteness  startled  her  for  a  moment. 

"  If  I  found  one  I  should  take  it,"  she  said. 


HONOURABLE  ENGAGEMENT       277 

"He!     I  know  that,"  he  said. 

It  so  happened  that  that  very  morning  she  saw  on  the 
notice-board  of  the  library  an  announcement  that  the  Borough 
Council  wished  to  engage  the  services  of  an  experienced  ma- 
ternity nurse,  applications  to  be  made  to  the  medical  board. 
Alvina  wrote  down  the  directions.  Ciccio  watched  her. 

"  What  is  a  maternity  nurse?  "  he  said. 

"An  accoucheusel  "  she  said.  "The  nurse  who  attends 
when  babies  are  born." 

"  Do  you  know  how  to  do  that?  "  he  said,  incredulous,  and 
jeering  slightly. 

"  I  was  trained  to  do  it,"  she  said. 

He  said  no  more,  but  walked  by  her  side  as  she  returned 
to  the  lodgings.  As  they  drew  near  the  lodgings,  he  said: 

"  You  don't  want  to  stop  with  us  any  more?  " 

"I  can't,"  she  said. 

He  made  a  slight,  mocking  gesture. 

"  '  I  can't,'  "  he  repeated.  "  Why  do  you  always  say  you 
can't?  " 

"  Because  I  can't,"  she  said. 

"  PfF  — !  "  he  went,  with  a  whistling  sound  of  contempt. 

But  she  went  indoors  to  her  room.  Fortunately,  when 
she  had  finally  cleared  her  things  from  Manchester  House, 
she  had  brought  with  her  her  nurse's  certificate,  and  recom- 
mendations from  doctors.  She  wrote  out  her  application, 
took  the  tram  to  the  Town  Hall  and  dropped  it  in  the  letter- 
box there.  Then  she  wired  home  to  her  doctor  for  another 
reference.  After  which  she  went  to  the  library  and  got  out 
a  book  on  her  subject.  If  summoned,  she  would  have  to  go 
before  the  medical  board  on  Monday.  She  had  a  week. 
She  read  and  pondered  hard,  recalling  all  her  previous  ex- 
perience and  knowledge. 

She  wondered  if  she  ought  to  appear  before  the  board  in 
uniform.  Her  nurse's  dresses  were  packed  in  her  trunk  at 
Mrs.  Slaney's,  in  Woodhouse.  It  was  now  May.  The  whole 
business  at  Woodhouse  was  finished.  Manchester  House  and 
all  the  furniture  was  sold  to  some  boot-and-shoe  people:  at 
least  the  boot-and-shoe  people  had  the  house.  They  had 
given  four  thousand  pounds  for  it  —  which  was  above  the 
lawyer's  estimate.  On  the  other  hand,  the  theatre  was  sold 
for  almost  nothing.  It  all  worked  out  that  some  thirty- 
three  pounds,  which  the  creditors  made  up  to  fifty  pounds, 


278  THE  LOST  GIRL 

remained  for  Alvina.  She  insisted  on  Miss  Pinnegar's  hav- 
ing half  of  this.  And  so  that  was  all  over.  Miss  Pinnegar 
was  already  in  Tamworth,  and  her  little  shop  would  be 
opened  next  week.  She  wrote  happily  and  excitedly  about  it. 

Sometimes  fate  acts  swiftly  and  without  a  hitch.  On 
Thursday  Alvina  received  her  notice  that  she  was  to  appear 
before  the  Board  on  the  following  Monday.  And  yet  she 
could  not  bring  herself  to  speak  of  it  to  Madame  till  the 
Saturday  evening.  When  they  were  all  at  supper,  she  said: 

"  Madame,  I  applied  for  a  post  of  maternity  nurse,  to  the 
Borough  of  Lancaster." 

Madame  raised  her  eyebrows.     Ciccio  had  said  nothing. 

"Oh  really!     You  never  told  me." 

"  I  thought  it  would  be  no  use  if  it  all  came  to  nothing. 
They  want  me  to  go  and  see  them  on  Monday,  and  then  they 
will  decide—" 

"Really!  Do  they!  On  Monday?  And  then  if  you  get 
this  work  you  will  stay  here?  Yes?  " 

"  Yes,  of  course." 

"Of  course!     Of  course!     Yes!     H'm!     And  if  not?  " 

The  two  women  looked  at  each  other. 

"What?"  said  Alvina. 

"  If  you  don't  get  it  — !     You  are  not  sure?  " 

"  No',"  said  Alvina.     "  I  am  not  a  bit  sure." 

"Well  then—!     Now!     And  if  you  don't  get  it—?  " 

"What  shall  I  do,  you  mean?  " 

"Yes,  what  shall  you  do?" 

"  I  don't  know." 

"How!  you  don't  know!  Shall  you  come  back  to  us, 
then?  " 

"  I  will  if  you  like— " 

"  If  I  like!  If  /  like!  Come,  it  is  not  a  question  of  if  / 
like.  It  is  what  do  you  want  to  do  yourself." 

"  I  feel  you  don't  want  me  very  badly,"  said  Alvina. 

"Why?  Why  do  you  feel?  Who  makes  you?  Which  of 
us  makes  you  feel  so?  Tell  me." 

"Nobody  in  particular.     But  I  feel  it." 

"Oh  we-ell!  If  nobody  makes  you,  and  yet  ^you  feeMt, 
it  must  be  in  yourself,  don't  you  see?  Eh?  Isn't  it  so?  " 

"  Perhaps  it  is,"  admitted  Alvina. 

"We-ell  then!  We-ell-  So  Madame  gave  her  her 
conge.  "But  if  you  like  to  come  back  —  if  you  laike  — 


HONOURABLE  ENGAGEMENT       279 

then — "  Madame  shrugged  her  shoulders — "you  must  come, 
I  suppose." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Alvina. 

The  young  men  were  watching.  They  seemed  indifferent. 
Ciccio  turned  aside,  with  his  faint,  stupid  smile. 

In  the  morning  Madame  gave  Alvina  all  her  belongings, 
from  the  little  safe  she  called  her  bank. 

"  There  is  the  money  —  so  —  and  so  —  and  so  —  that  is  cor- 
rect. Please  count  it  once  more!  — "  Alvina  counted  it  and 
kept  it  clutched  in  her  hand.  "And  there  are  your  rings, 
and  your  chain,  and  your  locket  —  see  —  all  —  everything — ! 
But  not  the  brooch.  Where  is  the  brooch?  Here!  Shall  I 
give  it  back,  hein?  " 

"  I  gave  it  to  you,"  said  Alvina,  offended.  She  looked  into 
Madame's  black  eyes.  Madame  dropped  her  eyes. 

"Yes,  you  gave  it.  But  I  thought,  you  see,  as  you  have 
now  not  much  mo-oney,  perhaps  you  would  like  to  take  it 
again  — " 

"  No,  thank  you,"  said  Alvina,  and  she  went  away,  leaving 
Madame  with  the  red  brooch  in  her  plump  hand. 

"Thank  goodness  I've  given  her  something  valuable," 
thought  Alvina  to  herself,  as  she  went  trembling  to  her  room. 

She  had  packed  her  bag.  She  had  to  find  new  rooms. 
She  bade  good-bye  to  the  Natcha-Kee-Tawaras.  Her  face  was 
cold  and  distant,  but  she  smiled  slightly  as  she  bade  them 
good-bye. 

"  And  perhaps,"  said  Madame,  "  per-haps  you  will  come  to 
Wigan  tomorrow  afternoon  —  or  evening?  Yes?" 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Alvina. 

She  went  out  and  found  a  little  hotel,  where  she  took  her 
room  for  the  night,  explaining  the  cause  of  her  visit  to  Lan- 
caster. Her  heart  was  hard  and  burning.  A  deep,  burn- 
ing, silent  anger  against  everything  possessed  her,  and  a  pro- 
found indifference  to  mankind. 

And  therefore,  the  next  day,  everything  went  as  if  by 
magic.  She  had  decided  that  at  the  least  sign  of  indiffer- 
ence from  the  medical  board  people  she  would  walk  away, 
take  her  bag,  and  go  to  Windermere.  She  had  never  been 
to  the  Lakes.  And  Windermere  was  not  far  off.  She  would 
not  endure  one  single  hint  of  contumely  from  any  one  else. 
She  would  go  straight  to  Windermere,  to  see  the  big  lake. 
Why  not  do  as  she  wished!  She  could  be  quite  happy  by 


280  THE  LOST  GIRL 

herself  among  the  lakes.  And  she  would  be  absolutely  free, 
absolutely  free.  She  rather  looked  forward  to  leaving  the 
Town  Hall,  hurrying  to  take  her  bag  and  off  to  the  station 
and  freedom.  Hadn't  she  still  got  about  a  hundred  pounds? 
Why  bother  for  one  moment?  To  be  quite  alone  in  the  whole 
world  —  and  quite,  quite  free,  with  her  hundred  pounds  — 
the  prospect  attracted  her  sincerely. 

And  therefore,  everything  went  charmingly  at  the  Town 
Hall.  The  medical  board  were  charming  to  her  —  charming. 
There  was  no  hesitation  at  all.  From  the  first  moment  she 
was  engaged.  And  she  was  given  a  pleasant  room  in  a 
hospital  in  a  garden,  and  the  matron  was  charming  to  her, 
and  the  doctors  most  courteous. 

When  could  she  undertake  to  commence  her  duties?  When 
did  they  want  her?  The  very  moment  she  could  come.  She 
could  begin  tomorrow  —  but  she  had  no  uniform.  Oh,  the 
matron  would  lend  her  uniform  and  aprons,  till  her  box 
arrived. 

So  there  she  was  —  by  afternoon  installed  in  her  pleasant 
little  room  looking  on  the  garden,  and  dressed  in  a  nurse's 
uniform.  It  was  all  sudden  like  magic.  She  had  wired  to 
Madame,  she  had  wired  for  her  box.  She  was  another 
person. 

Needless  to  say,  she  was  glad.  Needless  to  say  that,  in 
the  morning,  when  she  had  thoroughly  bathed,  and  dressed 
in  clean  clothes,  and  put  on  the  white  dress,  the  white  apron, 
and  the  white  cap,  she  felt  another  person.  So  clean,  she 
felt,  so  thankful!  Her  skin  seemed  caressed  and  live  with 
cleanliness  and  whiteness,  luminous  she  felt.  It  was  so 
different  from  being  with  the  Natchas. 

In  the  garden  the  snowballs,  guelder-roses,  swayed  softly 
among  green  foliage,  there  was  pink  may-blossom,  and  single 
scarlet  may-blossom,  and  underneath  the  young  green  of  the 
trees,  irises  rearing  purple  and  moth-white.  A  young  gar- 
dener was  working  —  and  a  convalescent  slowly  trailed  a  few 
paces. 

Having  ten  minutes  still,  Alvina  sat  down  and  wrote  to 
Ciccio :  "  I  am  glad  I  have  got  this  post  as  nurse  here.  Every 
one  is  most  kind,  and  I  feel  at  home  already.  I  feel  quite 
happy  here.  I  shall  think  of  my  days  with  the  Natcha-Kee- 
Tawaras,  and  of  you,  who  were  such  a  stranger  to  me.  Good- 
bye.—A.  H." 


HONOURABLE  ENGAGEMENT       281 

This  she  addressed  and  posted.  No  doubt  Madame  would 
find  occasion  to  read  it.  But  let  her. 

Alvina  now  settled  down  to  her  new  work.  There  was  of 
course  a  great  deal  to  do,  for  she  had  work  both  in  the  hos- 
pital and  out  in  the  town,  though  chiefly  out  in  the  town. 
She  went  rapidly  from  case  to  case,  as  she  was  summoned. 
And  she  was  summoned  at  all  hours.  So  that  it  was  tiring 
work,  which  left  her  no  time  to  herself,  except  just  in 
snatches. 

She  had  no  serious  acquaintance  with  anybody,  she  was 
too  busy.  The  matron  and  sisters  and  doctors  and  patients 
were  all  part  of  her  day's  work,  and  she  regarded  them  as 
such.  The  men  she  chiefly  ignored:  she  felt  much  more 
friendly  with  the  matron.  She  had  many  a  cup  of  tea  and 
many  a  chat  in  the  matron's  room,  in  the  quiet,  sunny  after- 
noons when  the  work  was  not  pressing.  Alvina  took  her 
quiet  moments  when  she  could:  for  she  never  knew  when  she 
would  be  rung  up  by  one  or  other  of  the  doctors  in  the  town. 

And  so,  from  the  matron,  she  learned  to  crochet.  It  was 
work  she  had  never  taken  to.  But  now  she  had  her  ball 
of  cotton  and  her  hook,  and  she  worked  away  as  she  chatted. 
She  was  in  good  health,  and  she  was  getting  fatter  again. 
With  the  Natcha-Kee-Tawaras,  she  had  improved  a  good  deal, 
her  colour  and  her  strength  had  returned.  But  undoubtedly 
the  nursing  life,  arduous  as  it  was,  suited  her  best.  She  be- 
came a  handsome,  reposeful  woman,  jolly  with  the  other 
nurses,  really  happy  with  her  friend  the  matron,  who  was 
well-bred  and  wise,  and  never  over-intimate. 

The  doctor  with  whom  Alvina  had  most  to  do  was  a  Dr. 
Mitchell,  a  Scotchman.  He  had  a  large  practice  among  the 
poor,  and  was  an  energetic  man.  He  was  about  fifty-four 
years  old,  tall,  largely-built,  with  a  good  figure,  but  with 
extraordinarily  large  feet  and  hands.  His  face  was  red  and 
clean-shaven,  his  eyes  blue,  his  teeth  very  good.  He  laughed 
and  talked  rather  mouthingly.  Alvina,  who  knew  what  the 
nurses  told  her,  knew  that  he  had  come  as  a  poor  boy  and 
bottle-washer  to  Dr.  Robertson,  a  fellow-Scotchman,  and  that 
he  had  made  his  way  up  gradually  till  he  became  a  doctor 
himself,  and  had  an  independent  practice.  Now  he  was 
quite  rich  —  and  a  bachelor.  But  the  nurses  did  not  set  their 
bonnets  at  him  very  much,  because  he  was  rather  mouthy  and 
overbearing. 


282  THE  LOST  GIRL 

In  the  houses  of  the  poor  he  was  a  great  autocrat. 

"What  is  that  stuff  you've  got  there!  "  he  inquired  largely, 
seeing  a  bottle  of  somebody's  Soothing  Syrup  by  a  poor 
woman's  bedside.  "  Take  it  and  throw  it  down  the  sink, 
and  the  next  time  you  want  a  soothing  syrup  put  a  little 
boot-blacking  in  hot  water.  It'll  do  you  just  as  much  good." 

Imagine  the  slow,  pompous,  large-mouthed  way  in  which 
the  red-faced,  handsomely-built  man  pronounced  these  words, 
and  you  realize  why  the  poor  set  such  store  by  him. 

He  was  eagle-eyed.  Wherever  he  went,  there  was  a  scuffle 
directly  his  foot  was  heard  on  the  stairs.  And  he  knew  they 
were  hiding  something.  He  sniffed  the  air:  he  glanced  round 
with  a  sharp  eye:  and  during  the  course  of  his  visit  picked 
up  a  blue  mug  which  was  pushed  behind  the  looking-glass. 
He  peered  inside  —  and  smelled  it. 

"Stout?"  he  said,  in  a  tone  of  indignant  inquiry:  God- 
Almighty  would  presumably  take  on  just  such  a  tone,  find- 
ing the  core  of  an  apple  flung  away  among  the  dead-nettle  of 
paradise:  "Stout!  Have  you  been  drinking  stout?"  This 
as  he  gazed  down  on  the  wan  mother  in  the  bed. 

"  They  gave  me  a  drop,  doctor.     I  felt  that  low." 

The  doctor  marched  out  of  the  room,  still  holding  the 
mug  in  his  hand.  The  sick  woman  watched  him  with  haunted 
eyes.  The  attendant  women  threw  up  their  hands  and  looked 
at  one  another.  Was  he  going  for  ever?  There  came  a 
sudden  smash.  The  doctor  had  flung  the  blue  mug  down- 
stairs. He  returned  with  a  solemn  stride. 

"There!  "  he  said.  "And  the  next  person  that  gives  you 
stout  will  be  thrown  down  along  with  the  mug." 

"  Oh  doctor,  the  bit  o'  comfort !  "  wailed  the  sick  woman. 
"  It  ud  never  do  me  no  harm." 

"  Harm !  Harm !  With  a  stomach  as  weak  as  yours ! 
Harm!  Do  you  know  better  than  I  do?  What  have  I  come 
here  for?  To  be  told  by  you  what  will  do  you  harm  and 
what  won't?  It  appears  to  me  you  need  no  doctor  here,  you 
know  everything  already  — " 

"  Oh  no,  doctor.  It's  not  like  that.  But  when  you  feel  as 
if  you'd  sink  through  the  bed,  an'  you  don't  know  what  to 
do  with  yourself — " 

"Take  a  little  beef -tea,  or  a  little  rice  pudding.  Take 
nourishment,  don't  take  that  muck.  Do  you  hear  —  -"  charging 
upon  the  attendant  women,  who  shrank  against  the  wall  — • 


HONOURABLE  ENGAGEMENT       283 

"  she's  to  have  nothing  alcoholic  at  all,  and  don't  let  me  catch 
you  giving  it  her." 

"They  say  there's  nobbut  fower  per  cent,  i'  stout,"  re- 
torted the  daring  female. 

"Fower  per  cent.,"  mimicked  the  doctor  brutally.  "Why, 
what  does  an  ignorant  creature  like  you  know  about  fower 
per  cent." 

The  woman  muttered  a  little  under  her  breath. 

"What?  Speak  out.  Let  me  hear  what  you've  got  to 
say,  my  woman.  I've  no  doubt  it's  something  for  my  bene- 
fit — " 

But  the  affronted  woman  rushed  out  of  the  room,  and  burst 
into  tears  on  the  landing.  After  which  Dr.  Mitchell,  mollified, 
largely  told  the  patient  how  she  was  to  behave,  concluding: 

"  Nourishment !  Nourishment  is  what  you  want.  Non- 
sense, don't  tell  me  you  can't  take  it.  Push  it  down  if  it  won't 
go  down  by  itself  — " 

"  Oh  doctor  — " 

"  Don't  say  oh  doctor  to  me.  Do  as  I  tell  you.  That's 
your  business."  After  which  he  marched  out,  and  the  rattle 
of  his  motor  car  was  shortly  heard. 

Alvina  got  used  to  scenes  like  these.  She  wondered  why 
the  people  stood  it.  But  soon  she  realized  that  they  loved  it 
—  particularly  the  women. 

"Oh,  nurse,  stop  till  Dr.  Mitchell's  been.  I'm  scared  to 
death  of  him,  for  fear  he's  going  to  shout  at  me." 

"Why  does  everybody  put  up  with  him?  "  asked  innocent 
Alvina. 

"  Oh,  he's  good-hearted,  nurse,  he  does  feel  for  you." 

And  everywhere  it  was  the  same :  "  Oh,  he's  got  a  heart, 
you  know.  He's  rough,  but  he's  got  a  heart.  I'd  rather  have 
him  than  your  smarmy  slormin  sort.  Oh,  you  feel  safe  with 
Dr.  Mitchell,  I  don't  care  what  you  say." 

But  to  Alvina  this  peculiar  form  of  blustering,  bullying 
heart  which  had  all  the  women  scurrying  like  chickens  was 
not  particularly  attractive. 

The  men  did  not  like  Dr.  Mitchell,  and  would  not  have 
him  if  possible.  Yet  since  he  was  club  doctor  and  panel 
doctor,  they  had  to  submit.  The  first  thing  he  said  to  a  sick 
or  injured  labourer,  invariably,  was: 

"  And  keep  off  the  beer." 

"Oh  ay!" 


284  THE  LOST  GIRL 

"  Keep  off  the  beer,  or  I  shan't  set  foot  in  this  house  again." 
"  Tha's  got  a  red  enough  face  on  thee,  tha  nedna  shout." 
"My  face  is  red  with  exposure  to  all  weathers,  attending 

ignorant   people   like   you.     I   never   touch    alcohol    in   any 

form." 

"  No,  an'  I  dunna.     I  drink  a  drop  o'  beer,  if  that's  what 

you  ca'  touchin'  alcohol.     An'  I'm  none  th'  wuss  for  it,  tha 


sees." 


you. 

"  Ah,  I  have." 

"  And  if  you  go  on  with  the  beer,  you  may  go  on  with  cur- 
ing yourself.  /  shan't  attend  you.  You  know  I  mean  what 
I  say,  Mrs.  Larrick  " —  this  to  the  wife. 

"  I  do,  doctor.  And  I  know  it's  true  what  you  say.  An' 
I'm  at  him  night  an'  day  about  it  — 

"  Oh  well,  if  he  will  hear  no  reason,  he  must  suffer  for  it. 
He  mustn't  think  Fm  going  to  be  running  after  him,  if  he 
disobeys  my  orders."  And  the  doctor  stalked  off,  and  the 
woman  began  to  complain. 

None  the  less  the  women  had  their  complaints  against 
Dr.  Mitchell.  If  ever  Alvina  entered  a  clean  house  on  a  wet 
day,  she  was  sure  to  hear  the  housewife  chuntering. 

"  Oh  my  lawk,  come  in  nurse !  What  a  day !  Doctor's 
not  been  yet.  And  he's  bound  to  come  now  I've  just  cleaned 
up,  trapesin'  wi'  his  gret  feet.  He's  got  the  biggest  under- 
standin's  of  any  man  i'  Lancaster.  My  husband  says  they're 
the  best  pair  o'  pasties  i'  th'  kingdom.  An'  he  does  make 
such  a  mess,  for  he  never  stops  to  wipe  his  feet  on  th'  mat, 
marches  straight  up  your  clean  stairs  — 

"  Why  don't  you  tell  him  to  wipe  his  feet?  "  said  Alvina. 

"Oh  my  word!  Fancy  me  telling  him!  He'd  jump  down 
my  throat  with  both  feet  afore  I'd  opened  my  mouth.  He's 
not  to  be  spoken  to,  he  isn't.  He's  my-lord,  he  is.  You 
mustn't  look,  or  you're  done  for." 

Alvina  laughed.  She  knew  they  all  liked  him  for  brow- 
beating them,  and  having  a  heart  over  and  above. 

Sometimes  he  was  given  a  good  hit  —  though  nearly  always 
by  a  man.  It  happened  he  was  in  a  workman's  house  when 
the  man  was  at  dinner. 

"  Canna  yer  gi'e  a  man  summat  better  nor  this  'ere  pap, 
Missis?  "  said  the  hairy  husband,  turning  up  his  nose  at  the 
rice  pudding. 


HONOURABLE  ENGAGEMENT       285 

"  Oh  go  on,"  cried  the  wife.  "  I  hadna  time  for  owt  else." 
Dr.  Mitchell  was  just  stooping  his  handsome  figure  in  the 
doorway. 

"  Rice  pudding !  "  he  exclaimed  largely.  "  You  couldn't 
have  anything  more  wholesome  and  nourishing.  I  have  a 
rice  pudding  every  day  of  my  life  —  every  day  of  my  life, 
I  do." 

The  man  was  eating  his  pudding  and  pearling  his  big 
moustache  copiously  with  it.  He  did  not  answer. 

"  Do  you  doctor !  "  cried  the  woman.  "  And  never  no 
different." 

"  Never,"  said  the  doctor. 

"  Fancy  that!     You're  that  fond  of  them?  " 

"  I  find  they  agree  with  me.  They  are  light  and  diges- 
tible. And  my  stomach  is  as  weak  as  a  baby's." 

The  labourer  wiped  his  big  moustache  on  his  sleeve. 

"  Mine  isna,  tha  sees,"  he  said,  "  so  pap's  no  use.  'S  waiter 
ter  me.  I  want  ter  feel  as  I've  had  summat:  a  bit  o'  suetty 
dumplin'  an'  a  pint  o'  hale,  summat  ter  fill  th'  hole  up.  An' 
tha'd  be  th'  same  if  tha  did  my  work." 

"  If  I  did  your  work,"  sneered  the  doctor.  "  Why  I  do 
ten  times  the  work  that  any  one  of  you  does.  It's  just  the 
work  that  has  ruined  my  digestion,  the  never  getting  a  quiet 
meal,  and  never  a  whole  night's  rest.  When  do  you  think  / 
can  sit  at  table  and  digest  my  dinner?  I  have  to  be  off 
looking  after  people  like  you — ' 

"Eh,  tha  can  ta'e  th'  titty -bottle  wi'  thee,"  said  the  la- 
bourer. 

But  Dr.  Mitchell  was  furious  for  weeks  over  this.  It  put 
him  in  a  black  rage  to  have  his  great  manliness  insulted. 
Alvina  was  quietly  amused. 

The  doctor  began  by  being  rather  lordly  and  condescend- 
ing with  her.  But  luckily  she  felt  she  knew  her  work  at  least 
as  well  as  he  knew  it.  She  smiled  and  let  him  condescend. 
Certainly  she  neither  feared  nor  even  admired  him.  To  tell 
the  truth,  she  rather  disliked  him:  the  great,  red-faced  bach- 
elor of  fifty-three,  with  his  bald  spot  and  his  stomach  as  weak 
as  a  baby's,  and  his  mouthing  imperiousness  and  his  good 
heart  which  was  as  selfish  as  it  could  be.  Nothing  can  be  more 
cocksuredly  selfish  than  a  good  heart  which  believes  in  its 
own  beneficence.  He  was  a  little  too  much  the  teetotaller 
on  the  one  hand  to  be  so  largely  manly  on  the  other.  Alvina 


286  THE  LOST  GIRL 

preferred  the  labourers  with  their  awful  long  moustaches  that 
got  full  of  food.  And  he  was  a  little  too  loud-mouthedly 
lordly  to  be  in  human  good  taste. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  was  conscious  of  the  fact  that  he 
had  risen  to  be  a  gentleman.  Now  if  a  man  is  conscious  of 
being  a  gentleman,  he  is  bound  to  be  a  little  less  than  a 
man.  But  if  he  is  gnawed  with  anxiety  lest  he  may  not 
be  a  gentleman,  he  is  only  pitiable.  There  is  a  third  case, 
however.  If  a  man  must  loftily,  by  his  manner,  assert  that 
he  is  ndw  a  gentleman,  he  shows  himself  a  clown.  For 
Alvina,  poor  Dr.  Mitchell  fell  into  this  third  category,  of 
clowns.  She  tolerated  him  good-humoured ly,  as  women  so 
often  tolerate  ninnies  and  poseurs.  She  smiled  to  herself 
when  she  saw  his  large  and  important  presence  on  the  board. 
She  smiled  when  she  saw  him  at  a  sale,  buying  the  grandest 
pieces  of  antique  furniture.  She  smiled  when  he  talked  of 
going  up  to  Scotland,  for  grouse  shooting,  or  of  snatching  an 
hour  on  Sunday  morning,  for  golf.  And  she  talked  him 
over,  with  quiet,  delicate  malice,  with  the  matron.  He  was 
no  favourite  at  the  hospital. 

Gradually  Dr.  Mitchell's  manner  changed  towards  her. 
From  his  imperious  condescension  he  took  to  a  tone  of  un- 
easy equality.  This  did  not  suit  him.  Dr.  Mitchell  had  no 
Xals:  he  had  only  the  vast  stratum  of  inferiors,  towards 
>m  he  exercised  his  quite  profitable  beneficence  —  it 
brought  him  in  about  two  thousand  a  year:  and  then  his 
superiors,  people  who  had  been  born  with  money.  It  was 
the  tradesmen  and  professionals  who  had  started  at  the 
bottom  and  clambered  to  the  motor-car  footing,  who  dis- 
tressed him.  And  therefore,  whilst  he  treated  Alvina  on 
this  uneasy  tradesman  footing,  he  felt  himself  in  a  false 
position. 

She  kept  her  attitude  of  quiet  amusement,  and  little  by 
little  he  sank.  From  being  a  lofty  creature  soaring  over  her 
head,  he  was  now  like  a  big  fish  poking  its  nose  above  water 
and  making  eyes  at  her.  He  treated  her  with  rather  pre- 
suming deference. 

"You  look  tired  this  morning,"  he  barked  at  her  one  hot 
day. 

"  I  think  it's  thunder,"  she  said. 

"  Thunder !  Work,  you  mean,"  and  he  gave  a  slight  smile. 
"  I'm  going  to  drive  you  back." 


HONOURABLE  ENGAGEMENT       287 

"Oh  no,  thanks,  don't  trouble!  I've  got  to  call  on  the 
way." 

"  Where  have  you  got  to  call  ?  " 

She  told  him. 

"  Very  well.  That  takes  you  no  more  than  five  minutes. 
I'll  wait  for  you.  Now  take  your  cloak." 

She  was  surprised.     Yet,  like  other  women,  she  submitted. 

As  they  drove  he  saw  a  man  with  a  barrow  of  cucumbers. 
He  stopped  the  car  and  leaned  towards  the  man. 

"  Take  that  barrow-load  of  poison  and  bury  it !  "  he  shouted, 
in  his  strong  voice.  The  busy  street  hesitated. 

"  What's  that,  mister  ?  "  replied  the  mystified  hawker. 

Dr.  Mitchell  pointed  to  the  green  pile  of  cucumbers. 

"Take  that  barrow-load  of  poison,  and  bury  it,"  he  called, 
"  before  you  do  anybody  any  more  harm  with  it." 

"What  barrow-load  of  poison's  that?  "  asked  the  hawker, 
approaching.  A  crowd  began  to  gather. 

"  What  barrow-load  of  poison  is  that !  "  repeated  the  doc- 
tor. "  Why  your  barrow-load  of  cucumbers." 

"  Oh,"  said  the  man,  scrutinizing  his  cucumbers  carefully. 
To  be  sure,  some  were  a  little  yellow  at  the  end.  "  How's 
that?  Cumbers  is  right  enough:  fresh  from  market  this 
morning." 

"  Fresh  or  not  fresh,"  said  the  doctor,  mouthing  his  words 
distinctly,  "  you  might  as  well  put  poison  into  your  stomach, 
as  those  things.  Cucumbers  are  the  worst  thing  you  can  eat." 

"  Oh !  "  said  the  man,  stuttering.  "  That's  'appen  for  them 
as  doesn't  like  them.  I  niver  knowed  a  cumber  do  me  no 
harm,  an'  I  eat  'em  like  a  happle."  Whereupon  the  hawker 
took  a  "  cumber "  from  his  barrow,  bit  off  the  end,  and 
chewed  it  till  the  sap  squirted.  "  What's  wrong  with  that?  " 
he  said,  holding  up  the  bitten  cucumber. 

"  I'm  not  talking  about  what's  wrong  with  that,"  said  the 
doctor.  "  My  business  is  what's  wrong  with  the  stomach  it 
goes  into.  I'm  a  doctor.  And  I  know  that  those  things  cause 
me  half  my  work.  They  cause  half  the  internal  troubles 
people  suffer  from  in  summertime." 

"Oh  ay!  That's  no  loss  to  you,  is  it?  Me  an'  you's 
partners.  More  cumbers  I  sell,  more  graft  for  you,  'cordin' 
to  that.  What's  wrong  then.  Cum-bers!  Fine  fresh  Cum- 
berrrs!  All  fresh  and  juisty,  all  cheap  and  tasty — /  "  yelled 
the  man. 


288  THE  LOST  GIRL 

"  I  am  a  doctor  not  only  to  cure  illness,  but  to  prevent  it 
where  I  can.  And  cucumbers  are  poison  to  everybody." 

"  Cum-bers!     Cum-bers!     Fresh  cumbers!  "  yelled  the  man, 

Dr.  Mitchell  started  his  car. 

"  When  will  they  learn  intelligence?  "  he  said  to  Alvina, 
smiling  and  showing  his  white,  even  teeth. 

"  I  don't  care,  you  know,  myself,"  she  said.  "  I  should 
always  let  people  do  what  they  wanted  — 

"  Even  if  you  knew  it  would  do  them  harm?  "  he  queried, 
smiling  with  amiable  condescension. 

"Yes,  why  not!  It's  their  own  affair.  And  they'll  do 
themselves  harm  one  way  or  another." 

"And  you  wouldn't  try  to  prevent  it?  " 

"  You  might  as  well  try  to  stop  the  sea  with  your  fingers." 

"  You  think  so  ?  "  smiled  the  doctor.  "  I  see,  you  are  a 
pessimist.  You  are  a  pessimist  with  regard  to  human  nature." 

"Am  I?"  smiled  Alvina,  thinking  the  rose  would  smell 
as  sweet.  It  seemed  to  please  the  doctor  to  find  that  Alvina 
was  a  pessimist  with  regard  to  human  nature.  It  seemed  to 
give  her  an  air  of  distinction.  In  his  eyes,  she  seemed  dis- 
tinguished. He  was  in  a  fair  way  to  dote  on  her. 

She,  of  course,  when  he  began  to  admire  her,  liked  him 
much  better,  and  even  saw  graceful,  boyish  attractions  in 
him.  There  was  really  something  childish  about  him.  And 
this  something  childish,  since  it  looked  up  to  her  as  if  she 
were  the  saving  grace,  naturally  flattered  her  and  made  her 
feel  gentler  towards  him. 

He  got  in  the  habit  of  picking  her  up  in  his  car,  when  he 
could.  And  he  would  tap  at  the  matron's  door,  smiling  and 
showing  all  his  beautiful  teeth,  just  about  tea-time. 

"  May  I  come  in?  "     His  voice  sounded  almost  flirty. 

"  Certainly." 

"  I  see  you're  having  tea !  Very  nice,  a  cup  of  tea  at  this 
hour!  " 

"  Have  one  too,  doctor." 

"  I  will  with  pleasure."  And  he  sat  down  wreathed  with 
smiles.  Alvina  rose  to  get  a  cup.  "  I  didn't  intend  to  dis- 
turb you,  nurse,"  he  said.  "Men  are  always  intruders,"  he 
smiled  to  the  matron. 

"  Sometimes,"  said  the  matron,  "  women  are  charmed  to 
be  intruded  upon." 

"Oh  really!  "  his  eyes  sparkled.     "Perhaps  you  wouldn't 


HONOURABLE  ENGAGEMENT       289 

say  so,  nurse?  "  he  said,  turning  to  Alvina.  Alvina  was 
just  reaching  at  the  cupboard.  Very  charming  she  looked,  in 
her  fresh  dress  and  cap  and  soft  brown  hair,  very  attractive 
her  figure,  with  its  full,  soft  loins.  She  turned  round  to  him. 

"  Oh  yes,"  she  said.     "  I  quite  agree  with  the  matron." 

"  Oh,  you  do !  "  He  did  not  quite  know  how  to  take  it. 
"But  you  mind  being  disturbed  at  your  tea,  I  am  sure." 

"  No,"  said  Alvina.     "  We  are  so  used  to  being  disturbed." 

"Rather  weak,  doctor?  "  said  the  matron,  pouring  the  tea. 

"  Very  weak,  please." 

The  doctor  was  a  little  laboured  in  his  gallantry,  but  un- 
mistakably gallant.  When  he  was  gone,  the  matron  looked 
demure,  and  Alvina  confused.  Each  waited  for  the  other 
to  speak. 

"  Don't  you  think  Dr.  Mitchell  is  quite  coming  out?  "  said 
Alvina. 

"Quite!  Quite  the  ladies'  man!  I  wonder  who  it  is  can 
be  bringing  him  out.  A  very  praiseworthy  work,  I  am  sure." 
She  looked  wickedly  at  Alvina. 

"  No,  don't  look  at  me,"  laughed  Alvina,  "  /  know  nothing 
about  it." 

"  Do  you  think  it  may  be  me! "  said  the  matron,  mis- 
chievous. 

"  I'm  sure  of  it,  matron !  He  begins  to  show  some  taste 
at  last." 

"  There  now !  "  said  the  matron.  "  I  shall  put  my  cap 
straight."  And  she  went  to  the  mirror,  fluffing  her  hair  and 
settling  her  cap. 

"There!  "  she  said,  bobbing  a  little  curtsey  to  Alvina. 

They  both  laughed,  and  went  off  to  work. 

But  there  was  no  mistake,  Dr.  Mitchell  was  beginning  to 
expand.  With  Alvina  he  quite  unbent,  and  seemed  even  to 
sun  himself  when  she  was  near,  to  attract  her  attention.  He 
smiled  and  smirked  and  became  oddly  self-conscious:  rather 
uncomfortable.  He  liked  to  hang  over  her  chair,  and  he 
made  a  great  event  of  offering  her  a  cigarette  whenever  they 
met,  although  he  himself  never  smoked.  He  had  a  gold 
cigarette  case. 

One  day  he  asked  her  in  to  see  his  garden.  He  had  a 
pleasant  old  square  house  with  a  big  walled  garden.  He 
showed  her  his  flowers  and  his  wall-fruit,  and  asked  her  to 
eat  his  strawberries.  He  bade  her  admire  his  asparagus.  And 


290  THE  LOST  GIRL 

then  he  gave  her  tea  in  the  drawing-room,  with  strawberries 
and  cream  and  cakes,  of  all  of  which  he  ate  nothing.  But 
he  smiled  expansively  all  the  time.  He  was  a  made  man: 
and  now  he  was  really  letting  himself  go,  luxuriating  in 
everything;  above  all,  in  Alvina,  who  poured  tea  gracefully 
from  the  old  Georgian  tea-pot,  and  smiled  so  pleasantly  above 
the  Queen  Anne  tea-cups. 

And  she,  wicked  that  she  was,  admired  every  detail  of  his 
drawing-room.  It  was  a  pleasant  room  indeed,  with  roses 
outside  the  French  door,  and  a  lawn  in  sunshine  beyond,  with 
bright  red  flowers  in  beds.  But  indoors,  it  was  insistently 
antique.  Alvina  admired  the  Jacobean  sideboard  and  the 
Jacobean  arm-chairs  and  the  Hepplewhite  wall-chairs  and  the 
Sheraton  settee  and  the  Chippendale  stands  and  the  Axminster 
carpet  and  the  bronze  clock  with  Shakespeare  and  Ariosto 
reclining  on  it  —  yes,  she  even  admired  Shakespeare  on  the 
clock  —  and  the  ormolu  cabinet  and  the  bead-work  foot-stools 
and  the  dreadful  Sevres  dish  with  a  cherub  in  it  and  —  but  why 
enumerate.  She  admired  everything!  And  Dr.  Mitchell's 
heart  expanded  in  his  bosom  till  he  felt  it  would  burst,  unless 
he  either  fell  at  her  feet  or  did  something  extraordinary.  He 
had  never  even  imagined  what  it  was  to  be  so  expanded:  what 
a  delicious  feeling.  He  could  have  kissed  her  feet  in  an 
ecstasy  of  wild  expansion.  But  habit,  so  far,  prevented  his 
doing  more  than  beam. 

Another  day  he  said  to  her,  when  they  were  talking  of 
age: 

"You  are  as  young  as  you  feel.  Why,  when  I  was  twenty 
I  felt  I  had  all  the  cares  and  responsibility  of  the  world 
on  my  shoulders.  And  now  I  am  middle-aged  more  or  less, 
I  feel  as  light  as  if  I  were  just  beginning  life."  He  beamed 
down  at  her. 

"  Perhaps  you  are  only  just  beginning  your  own  life,"  she 
said.  "  You  have  lived  for  your  work  till  now." 

"  It  may  be  that,"  he  said.  "  It  may  be  that  up  till  now 
I  have  lived  for  others,  for  my  patients.  And  now  perhaps 
I  may  be  allowed  to  live  a  little  more  for  myself."  He 
beamed  with  real  luxury,  saw  the  real  luxury  of  life  begin. 

"Why  shouldn't  you?  "  said  Alvina. 

"  Oh  yes,  I  intend  to,"  he  said,  with  confidence. 

He  really,  by  degrees,  made  up  his  mind  to  marry  now, 
and  to  retire  in  part  from  his  work.  That  is,  he  would  hire 


HONOURABLE  ENGAGEMENT       291 

another  assistant,  and  give  himself  a  fair  amount  of  leisure. 
He  was  inordinately  proud  of  his  house.  And  now  he 
looked  forward  to  the  treat  of  his  life:  hanging  round  the 
woman  he  had  made  his  wife,  following  her  about,  feeling 
proud  of  her  and  his  house,  talking  to  her  from  morning  till 
night,  really  finding  himself  in  her.  When  he  had  to  go  his 
rounds  she  would  go  with  him  in  the  car:  he  made  up  his 
mind  she  would  be  willing  to  accompany  him.  He  would 
teach  her  to  drive,  and  they  would  sit  side  by  side,  she 
driving  him  and  waiting  for  him.  And  he  would  run  out  of 
the  houses  of  his  patients,  and  find  her  sitting  there,  and  he 
would  get  in  beside  her  and  feel  so  snug  and  so  sure  and  so 
happy  as  she  drove  him  off  to  the  next  case,  he  informing 
her  about  his  work. 

And  if  ever  she  did  not  go  out  with  him,  she  would  be 
there  on  the  doorstep  waiting  for  him  the  moment  she  heard 
the  car.  And  they  would  have  long,  cosy  evenings  together 
in  the  drawing-room,  as  he  luxuriated  in  her  very  presence. 
She  would  sit  on  his  knees  and  they  would  be  snug  for  hours, 
before  they  went  warmly  and  deliciously  to  bed.  And  in 
the  morning  he  need  not  rush  off.  He  would  loiter  about 
with  her,  they  would  loiter  down  the  garden  looking  at  every 
new  flower  and  every  new  fruit,  she  would  wear  fresh  flowery 
dressses  and  no  cap  on  her  hair,  he  would  never  be  able  to 
tear  himself  away  from  her.  Every  morning  it  would  be 
unbearable  to  have  to  tear  himself  away  from  her,  and  every 
hour  he  would  be  rushing  back  to  her.  They  would  be  simply 
everything  to  one  another.  And  how  he  would  enjoy  it!  Ah! 

He  pondered  as  to  whether  he  would  have  children.  A 
child  would  take  her  away  from  him.  That  was  his  first 
thought.  But  then — !  Ah  well,  he  would  have  to  leave  it 
till  the  time.  Love's  young  dream  is  never  so  delicious  as 
at  the  virgin  age  of  fifty-three. 

But  he  was  quite  cautious.  He  made  no  definite  advances 
till  he  had  put  a  plain  question.  It  was  August  Bank  Holi- 
day, that  for  ever  black  day  of  the  declaration  of  war,  when 
his  question  was  put.  For  this  year  of  our  story  is  the  fatal 
year  1914. 

There  was  quite  a  stir  in  the  town  over  the  declaration  of 
war.  But  most  people  felt  that  the  news  was  only  intended 
to  give  an  extra  thrill  to  the  all-important  event  of  Bank 
Holiday.  Half  the  world  had  gone  to  Blackpool  or  South- 


292  THE  LOST  GIRL 

port,  the  other  half  had  gone  to  the  Lakes  or  into  the  country. 
Lancaster  was  busy  with  a  sort  of  fete,  notwithstanding.  And 
as  the  weather  was  decent,  everybody  was  in  a  real  holiday 
mood. 

So  that  Dr.  Mitchell,  who  had  contrived  to  pick  up  Alvina 
at  the  Hospital,  contrived  to  bring  her  to  his  house  at  half- 
past  three,  for  tea. 

"What  do  you  think  of  this  new  war?  "  said  Alvina. 

"  Oh,  it  will  be  over  in  six  weeks,"  said  the  doctor  easily. 
And  there  they  left  it.  Only,  with  a  fleeting  thought,  Alvina 
wondered  if  it  would  affect  the  Natcha-Kee-Tawaras.  She  had 
never  heard  any  more  of  them. 

"Where  would  you  have  liked  to  go  today?"  said  the 
doctor,  turning  to  smile  at  her  as  he  drove  the  car. 

"  I  think  to  Windermere  —  into  the  Lakes,"  she  said. 

"  We  might  make  a  tour  of  the  Lakes  before  long,"  he  said. 
She  was  not  thinking,  so  she  took  no  particular  notice  of  the 
speech. 

"How  nice!"  she  said  vaguely. 

"  We  could  go  in  the  car,  and  take  them  as  we  chose,"  said 
the  doctor. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  wondering  at  him  now. 

When  they  had  had  tea,  quietly  and  gallantly  tete-a-tete  in 
his  drawing-room,  he  asked  her  if  she  would  like  to  see  the 
other  rooms  of  the  house.  She  thanked  him,  and  he  showed 
her  the  substantial  oak  dining-room,  and  the  little  room  with 
medical  works  and  a  revolving  chair,  which  he  called  his 
study:  then  the  kitchen  and  the  pantry,  the  housekeeper  look- 
ing askance;  then  upstairs  to  his  bedroom,  which  was  very 
fine  with  old  mahogany  tall-boys  and  silver  candle-sticks 
on  the  dressing-table,  and  brushes  with  green  ivory  backs, 
and  a  hygienic  white  bed  and  straw  mats:  then  the  visitors' 
bedroom  corresponding,  with  its  old  satin-wood  furniture  and 
cream-coloured  chairs  with  large,  pale-blue  cushions,  and  a 
pale  carpet  with  reddish  wreaths.  Very  nice,  lovely,  awfully 
nice,  I  do  like  that,  isn't  that  beautiful,  I've  never  seen  any- 
thing like  that!  came  the  gratifying  fireworks  of  admiration 
from  Alvina.  And  he  smiled  and  gloated.  But  in  her  mind 
she  was  thinking  of  Manchester  House,  and  how  dark  and 
horrible  it  was,  how  she  hated  it,  but  how  it  had  impressed 
Ciccio  and  Geoffrey,  how  they  would  have  loved  to  feel  them- 
selves masters  of  it,  and  how  done  in  the  eye  they  were.  She 


HONOURABLE  ENGAGEMENT       293 

smiled  to  herself  rather  grimly.  For  this  afternoon  she  was 
feeling  unaccountably  uneasy  and  wistful,  yearning  into  the 
distance  again :  a  trick  she  thought  she  had  happily  lost. 

The  doctor  dragged  her  up  even  to  the  slanting  attics.  He 
was  a  big  man,  and  he  always  wore  navy  blue  suits,  well- 
tailored  and  immaculate.  Unconsciously  she  felt  that  big 
men  in  good  navy-blue  suits,  especially  if  they  had  reddish 
faces  and  rather  big  feet  and  if  their  hair  was  wearing  thin, 
were  a  special  type  all  to  themselves,  solid  and  rather  namby- 
pamby  and  tiresome. 

"What  very  nice  attics!  I  think  the  many  angles  which 
the  roof  makes,  the  different  slants,  you  know,  are  so  attrac- 
tive. Oh,  and  the  fascinating  little  window!  "  She  crouched 
in  the  hollow  of  the  small  dormer  window.  "  Fascinating ! 
See  the  town  and  the  hills!  I  know  I  should  want  this  room 
for  my  own." 

"  Then  have  it,"  he  said.     "  Have  it  for  one  of  your  own." 

She  crept  out  of  the  window  recess  and  looked  up  at  him. 
He  was  leaning  forward  to  her,  smiling,  self-conscious,  ten- 
tative, and  eager.  She  thought  it  best  to  laugh  it  off. 

"  I  was  only  talking  like  a  child,  from  the  imagination," 
she  said. 

"  I  quite  understand  that,"  he  replied  deliberately.  "  But 
I  am  speaking  what  I  mean — " 

She  did  not  answer,  but  looked  at  him  reproachfully.  He 
was  smiling  and  smirking  broadly  at  her. 

"  Won't  you  marry  me,  and  come  and  have  this  garret 
for  your  own?  "  He  spoke  as  if  he  were  offering  her  a 
chocolate.  He  smiled  with  curious  uncertainty. 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  said  vaguely. 

His  smile  broadened. 

"Well  now,"  he  said,  "make  up  your  mind.  I'm  not 
good  at  talking  about  love,  you  know.  But  I  think  I'm  pretty 
good  at  feeling  it,  you  know.  I  want  you  to  come  here  and 
be  happy:  with  me."  He  added  the  two  last  words  as  a  sort 
of  sly  post-scriptum,  and  as  if  to  commit  himself  finally. 

"  But  I've  never  thought  about  it,"  she  said,  rapidly 
cogitating. 

"  I  know  you  haven't.  But  think  about  it  now  — "  He 
began  to  be  hugely  pleased  with  himself.  "  Think  about  it 
now.  And  tell  me  if  you  could  put  up  with  me,  as  well  as 
the  garret."  He  beamed  and  put  his  head  a  little  on  one 


294  THE  LOST  GIRL 

side  —  rather  like  Mr.  May,  for  one  second.  But  he  was 
much  more  dangerous  than  Mr.  May.  He  was  overbearing, 
and  had  the  devil's  own  temper  if  he  was  thwarted.  This  she 
knew.  He  was  a  big  man  in  a  navy  blue  suit,  with  very  white 
teeth. 

Again  she  thought  she  had  better  laugh  it  off. 

"  It's  you  I  am  thinking  about,"  she  laughed,  flirting  still. 
"  It's  you  I  am  wondering  about." 

"  Well,"  he  said,  rather  pleased  with  himself,  "  you  wonder 
about  me  till  you've  made  up  your  mind  — " 

"  I  will  — "  she  said,  seizing  the  opportunity.  "  I'll  wonder 
about  you  till  I've  made  up  my  mind  —  shall  I?  " 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "That's  what  I  wish  you  to  do.  And 
the  next  time  I  ask  you,  you'll  let  me  loiow.  That's  it, 
isn't  it?  "  He  smiled  indulgently  down  on  her:  thought  her 
face  young  and  charming,  charming. 

"  Yes,"  she  said.     "  But  don't  ask  me  too  soon,  will  you?  " 

"  How,  too  soon  — ?  "     He  smiled  delightedly. 

"You'll  give  me  time  to  wonder  about  you,  won't  you? 
You  won't  ask  me  again  this  month,  will  you?  " 

"This  month?"  His  eyes  beamed  with  pleasure.  He 
enjoyed  the  procrastination  as  much  as  she  did.  "  But  the 
month's  only  just  begun!  However!  Yes,  you  shall  have 
your  way.  I  won't  ask  you  again  this  month." 

"  And  I'll  promise  to  wonder  about  you  all  the  month," 
she  laughed. 

"  That's  a  bargain,"  he  said. 

They  went  downstairs,  and  Alvina  returned  to  her  duties. 
She  was  very  much  excited,  very  much  excited  indeed.  A 
big,  well-to-do  man  in  a  navy  blue  suit,  of  handsome  appear- 
ance, aged  fifty-three,  with  white  teeth  and  a  delicate 
stomach:  it  was  exciting.  A  sure  position,  a  very  nice  home 
and  lovely  things  in  it,  once  they  were  dragged  about  a  bit. 
And  of  course  he'd  adore  her.  That  went  without  saying. 
She  was  as  fussy  as  if  some  one  had  given  her  a  lovely  new 
pair  of  boots.  She  was  really  fussy  and  pleased  with  her- 
self: and  quite  decided  she'd  take  it  all  on.  That  was  how 
it  put  itself  to  her:  she  would  take  it  all  on. 

Of  course  there  was  the  man  himself  to  consider.  But  he 
was  quite  presentable.  There  was  nothing  at  all  against 
it:  nothing  at  all.  If  he  had  pressed  her  during  the  first 


HONOURABLE  ENGAGEMENT       295 

half  of  the  month  of  August,  he  would  almost  certainly  have 
got  her.  But  he  only  beamed  in  anticipation. 

Meanwhile  the  stir  and  restlessness  of  the  war  had  begun, 
and  was  making  itself  felt  even  in  Lancaster.  And  the  ex- 
citement and  the  unease  began  to  wear  through  Alvina's 
rather  glamorous  fussiness.  Some  of  her  old  fretfulness 
came  back  on  her.  Her  spirit,  which  had  been  as  if  asleep 
these  months,  now  woke  rather  irritably,  and  chafed  against 
its  collar.  Who  was  this  elderly  man,  that  she  should  marry 
him?  Who  was  he,  that  she  should  be  kissed  by  him.  Act- 
ually kissed  and  fondled  by  him!  Repulsive.  She  avoided 
him  like  the  plague.  Fancy  reposing  against  his  broad,  navy 
blue  waistcoat!  She  started  as  if  she  had  been  stung.  Fancy 
seeing  his  red,  smiling  face  just  above  hers,  coming  down  to 
embrace  her!  She  pushed  it  away  with  her  open  hand.  And 
she  ran  away,  to  avoid  the  thought. 

And  yet!  And  yet!  She  would  be  so  comfortable,  she 
would  be  so  well-off  for  the  rest  of  her  life.  The  hateful 
problem  of  material  circumstance  would  be  solved  for  ever. 
And  she  knew  well  how  hateful  material  circumstances  can 
make  life. 

Therefore,  she  could  not  decide  in  a  hurry.  But  she  bore 
poor  Dr.  Mitchell  a  deep  grudge,  that  he  could  not  grant  her 
all  the  advantages  of  his  offer,  and  excuse  her  the  acceptance 
of  him  himself.  She  dared  not  decide  in  a  hurry.  And  this 
very  fear,  like  a  yoke  on  her,  made  her  resent  the  man  who 
drove  her  to  decision. 

Sometimes  she  rebelled.  Sometimes  she  laughed  unpleas- 
antly in  the  man's  face:  though  she  dared  not  go  too  far: 
for  she  was  a  little  afraid  of  him  and  his  rabid  temper,  also. 
In  her  moments  of  sullen  rebellion  she  thought  of  Natcha- 
Kee-Tawara.  She  thought  of  them  deeply.  She  wondered 
where  they  were,  what  they  were  doing,  how  the  war  had 
affected  them.  Poor  Geoffrey  was  a  Frenchman  —  he  would 
have  to  go  to  France  to  fight.  Max  and  Louis  were  Swiss, 
it  would  not  affect  them:  nor  Ciccio,  who  was  Italian.  She 
wondered  if  the  troupe  was  in  England:  if  they  would  con- 
tinue together  when  Geoffrey  was  gone.  She  wondered  if 
they  thought  of  her.  She  felt  they  did.  She  felt  they  did 
not  forget  her.  She  felt  there  was  a  connection. 

In  fact,  during  the  latter  part  of  August  she  wondered  a 


296  THE  LOST  GIRL 

good  deal  more  about  the  Natchas  than  about  Dr.  Mitchell. 
But  wondering  about  the  Natchas  would  not  help  her.  She 
felt,  if  she  knew  where  they  were,  she  would  fly  to  them.  But 
then  she  knew  she  wouldn't. 

When  she  was  at  the  station  she  saw  crowds  and  bustle. 
People  were  seeing  their  young  men  off.  Beer  was  flowing: 
sailors  on  the  train  were  tipsy:  women  were  holding  young 
men  by  the  lapel  of  the  coat.  And  when  the  train  drew 
away,  the  young  men  waving,  the  women  cried  aloud  and 
sobbed  after  them. 

A  chill  ran  down  Alvina's  spine.  This  was  another  matter, 
apart  from  her  Dr.  Mitchell.  It  made  him  feel  very  unreal, 
trivial.  She  did  not  know  what  she  was  going  to  do.  She 
realized  she  must  do  something  —  take  some  part  in  the  wild 
dislocation  of  life.  She  knew  that  she  would  put  off  Dr. 
Mitchell  again. 

She  talked  the  matter  over  with  the  matron.  The  matron 
advised  her  to  procrastinate.  Why  not  volunteer  for  war- 
service?  True,  she  was  a  maternity  nurse,  and  this  was 
hardly  the  qualification  needed  for  the  nursing  of  soldiers. 
But  still,  she  was  a  nurse. 

Alvina  felt  this  was  the  thing  to  do.  Everywhere  was  a 
stir  and  a  seethe  of  excitement.  Men  were  active,  women 
were  needed  too.  She  put  down  her  name  on  the  list  of 
volunteers  for  active  service.  This  was  on  the  last  day  of 
August. 

On  the  first  of  September  Dr.  Mitchell  was  round  at  the 
hospital  early,  when  Alvina  was  just  beginning  her  morn- 
ing duties  there.  He  went  into  the  matron's  room,  and  asked 
for  Nurse  Houghton.  The  matron  left  them  together. 

The  doctor  was  excited.  He  smiled  broadly,  but  with  a  ten- 
sion of  nervous  excitement.  Alvina  was  troubled.  Her  heart 
beat  fast. 

"Now!"  said  Dr.  Mitchell.  "What  have  you  to  say  to 
me?" 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  confused  eyes.  He  smiled  ex- 
citedly and  meaningful  at  her,  and  came  a  little  nearer. 

"  Today  is  the  day  when  you  answer,  isn't  it?  "  he  said. 
"  Now  then,  let  me  hear  what  you  have  to  say." 

But  she  only  watched  him  with  large,  troubled  eyes,  and 
did  not  speak.  He  came  still  nearer  to  her. 

"Well  then,"  he  said,  "I  am  to  take  it  that  silence  gives 


HONOURABLE  ENGAGEMENT       297 

And  he  laughed  nervously,  with  nervous  anticipa- 
tion, as  he  tried  to  put  his  arm  round  her.  But  she  stepped 
suddenly  back. 

"No,  not  yet,"  she  said. 

"Why?"  he  asked. 

"  I  haven't  given  my  answer,"  she  said. 

"  Give  it  then,"  he  said,  testily. 

"  I've  volunteered  for  active  service,"  she  stammered.  "  I 
felt  I  ought  to  do  something." 

"  Why?  "  he  asked.  He  could  put  a  nasty  intonation  into 
that  monosyllable.  "  I  should  have  thought  you  would  answer 
me  first." 

She  did  not  answer,  but  watched  him.  She  did  not  like 
him. 

"  I  only  signed  yesterday,"  she  said. 

"Why  didn't  you  leave  it  till  tomorrow?  It  would  have 
looked  better."  He  was  angry.  But  he  saw  a  half -frightened, 
half-guilty  look  on  her  face,  and  during  the  weeks  of  anticipa- 
tion he  had  worked  himself  up. 

"  But  put  that  aside,"  he  smiled  again,  a  little  dangerously. 
"  You  have  still  to  answer  my  question.  Having  volunteered 
for  war  service  doesn't  prevent  your  being  engaged  to  me, 
does  it?  " 

Alvina  watched  him  with  large  eyes.  And  again  he  came 
very  near  to  her,  so  that  his  blue-serge  waistcoat  seemed,  to 
impinge  on  her,  and  his  purplish  red  face  was  above  her. 

"  I'd  rather  not  be  engaged,  under  the  circumstances,"  she 
said. 

"Why?  "  came  the  nasty  monosyllable.  "What  have  the 
circumstances  got  to  do  with  it?  " 

"  Everything  is  so  uncertain,"  she  said.     "  I'd  rather  wait." 

"Wait!  Haven't  you  waited  long  enough?  There's  noth- 
ing at  all  to  prevent  your  getting  engaged  to  me  now.  Noth- 
ing whatsoever!  Come  now.  I'm  old  enough  not  to  be 
played  with.  And  I'm  much  too  much  in  love  with  you  to 
let  you  go  on  indefinitely  like  this.  Come  now !  "  He  smiled 
imminent,  and  held  out  his  large  hand  for  her  hand.  "  Let 
me  put  the  ring  on  your  finger.  It  will  be  the  proudest  day 
of  my  life  when  I  make  you  my  wife.  Give  me  your  hand  — " 

Alvina  was  wavering.  For  one  thing,  mere  curiosity  made 
her  want  to  see  the  ring.  She  half  lifted  her  hand.  And  but 
for  the  knowledge  that  he  would  kiss  her,  she  would  have 


298  THE  LOST  GIRL 

given  it.  But  he  would  kiss  her  —  and  against  that  she  ob- 
stinately set  her  will.  She  put  her  hand  behind  her  back, 
and  looked  obstinately  into  his  eyes. 

"  Don't  play  a  game  with  me,"  he  said  dangerously. 

But  she  only  continued  to  look  mockingly  and  obstinately 
into  his  eyes. 

"  Come,"  he  said,  beckoning  for  her  to  give  her  hand. 

With  a  barely  perceptible  shake  of  the  head,  she  refused, 
staring  at  him  all  the  time.  His  ungovernable  temper  got 
the  better  of  him.  He  saw  red,  and  without  knowing,  seized 
her  by  the  shoulder,  swung  her  back,  and  thrust  her,  pressed 
her  against  the  wall  as  if  he  would  push  her  through  it.  His 
face  was  blind  with  anger,  like  a  hot,  red  sun.  Suddenly, 
almost  instantaneously,  he  came  to  himself  again  and  drew 
back  his  hands,  shaking  his  right  hand  as  if  some  rat  had 
bitten  it. 

"  I'm  sorry !  "  he  shouted,  beside  himself.  "  I'm  sorry.  I 
didn't  mean  it.  I'm  sorry."  He  dithered  before  her. 

She  recovered  her  equilibrium,  and,  pale  to  the  lips,  looked 
at  him  with  sombre  eyes. 

"I'm  sorry!  "  he  continued  loudly,  in  his  strange  frenzy 
like  a  small  boy.  "Don't  remember!  Don't  remember! 
Don't  think  I  did  it." 

His  face  was  a  kind  of  blank,  and  unconsciously  he  wrung 
the  hand  that  had  gripped  her,  as  if  it  pained  him.  She 
watched  him,  and  wondered  why  on  earth  all  this  frenzy. 
She  was  left  rather  cold,  she  did  not  at  all  feel  the  strong 
feelings  he  seemed  to  expect  of  her.  There  was  nothing  so 
very  unnatural,  after  all,  in  being  bumped  up  suddenly  against 
the  wall.  Certainly  her  shoulder  hurt  where  he  had  gripped 
it.  But  there  were  plenty  of  worse  hurts  in  the  world.  She 
watched  him  with  wide,  distant  eyes. 

And  he  fell  on  his  knees  before  her,  as  she  backed  against 
the  bookcase,  and  he  caught  hold  of  the  edge  of  her  dress- 
bottom,  drawing  it  to  him.  Which  made  her  rather  abashed, 
and  much  more  uncomfortable. 

"Forgive  me!  "  he  said.  "  Don't  remember !  Forgive  me! 
Love  me!  Love  me!  Forgive  me  and  love  me!  Forgive  me 
and  love  me!  " 

As  Alvina  was  looking  down  dismayed  on  the  great,  red- 
faced,  elderly  man,  who  in  his  crying-out  showed  his  white 
teeth  like  a  child,  and  as  she  was  gently  trying  to  draw  her 


HONOURABLE  ENGAGEMENT       299 

skirt  from  his  clutch,  the  door  opened,  and  there  stood  the 
matron,  in  her  big  frilled  cap.  Alvina  glanced  at  her,  flushed 
crimson  and  looked  down  to  the  man  She  touched  his  face 
with  her  hand. 

"Never  mind,"  she  said.  "It's  nothing.  Don't  think 
about  it." 

He  caught  her  hand  and  clung  to  it. 

"  Love  me!     Love  me!     Love  me!  "  he  cried. 

The  matron  softly  closed  the  door  again,  withdrawing. 

"  Love  me !     Love  me !  " 

Alvina  was  absolutely  dumbfounded  by  this  scene.  She 
had  no  idea  men  did  such  things.  It  did  not  touch  her,  it 
dumbfounded  her. 

The  doctor,  clinging  to  her  hand,  struggled  to  his  feet  and 
flung  his  arms  round  her,  clasping  her  wildly  to  him. 

"You  love  me!  You  love  me,  don't  you?"  he  said, 
vibrating  and  beside  himself  as  he  pressed  her  to  his  breast 
and  hid  his  face  against  her  hair.  At  such  a  moment,  what 
was  the  good  of  saying  she  didn't?  But  she  didn't.  Pity 
for  his  shame,  however,  kept  her  silent,  motionless  and  silent 
in  his  arms,  smothered  against  the  blue-serge  waistcoat  of  his 
broad  breast. 

He  was  beginning  to  come  to  himself.  He  became  silent. 
But  he  still  strained  her  fast,  he  had  no  idea  of  letting  her 
go. 

"You  will  take  my  ring,  won't  you?  "  he  said  at  last,  still 
in  the  strange,  lamentable  voice.  "  You  will  take  my  ring." 

"Yes,"  she  said  coldly.  Anything  for  a  quiet  emergence 
from  this  scene. 

He  fumbled  feverishly  in  his  pocket  with  one  hand,  hold- 
ing her  still  fast  by  the  other  arm.  And  with  one  hand  he 
managed  to  extract  the  ring  from  its  case,  letting  the  case 
roll  away  on  the  floor.  It  was  a  diamond  solitaire. 

"Which  finger?  Which  finger  is  it?"  he  asked,  begin- 
ning to  smile  rather  weakly.  She  extricated  her  hand,  and 
held  out  her  engagement  finger.  Upon  it  was  the  mourning- 
ring  Miss  Frost  had  always  worn.  The  doctor  slipped  the 
diamond  solitaire  above  the  mourning  ring,  and  folded  Alvina 
to  his  breast  again. 

"  Now,"  he  said,  almost  in  his  normal  voice.  "  Now  I 
know  you  love  me."  The  pleased  self-satisfaction  in  his  voice 
made  her  angry.  She  managed  to  extricate  herself. 


300  THE  LOST  GIRL 

"You  will  come  along  with  me  now?  "  he  said. 

"  I  can't,"  she  answered.  "  I  must  get  back  to  my  work 
here." 

"  Nurse  Allen  can  do  that." 

"  I'd  rather  not." 

"Where  are  you  going  today?  " 

She  told  him  her  cases. 

"Well,  you  will  come  and  have  tea  with  me.  I  shall 
expect  you  to  have  tea  with  me  every  day." 

But  Alvina  was  straightening  her  crushed  cap  before  the 
mirror,  and  did  not  answer. 

"  We  can  see  as  much  as  we  like  of  each  other  now  we're 
engaged,"  he  said,  smiling  with  satisfaction. 

"  I  wonder  where  the  matron  is,"  said  Alvina,  suddenly 
going  into  the  cool  white  corridor.  He  followed  her.  And 
they  met  the  matron  just  coming  out  of  the  ward. 

"Matron!"  said  Dr.  Mitchell,  with  a  return  of  his  old 
mouthing  importance.  "  You  may  congratulate  Nurse  Hough- 
ton  and  me  on  our  engagement  — "  He  smiled  largely. 

"  I  may  congratulate  you,  you  mean,"  said  the  matron. 

"  Yes,  of  course.  And  both  of  us,  since  we  are  now  one," 
he  replied. 

"  Not  quite,  yet,"  said  the  matron  gravely. 

And  at  length  she  managed  to  get  rid  of  him. 

At  once  she  went  to  look  for  Alvina,  who  had  gone  to  her 
duties. 

"  Well,  I  suppose  it  is  all  right,"  said  the  matron  gravely. 

"  No  it  isn't,"  said  Alvina.     "  I  shall  never  marry  him." 

"  Ah,  never  is  a  long  while !     Did  he  hear  me  come  in  ?  " 

"  No,  I'm  sure  he  didn't." 

"Thank  goodness  for  that." 

"Yes  indeed!  It  was  perfectly  horrible.  Following  me 
round  on  his  knees  and  shouting  for  me  to  love  him!  Per- 
fectly horrible!  " 

"  Well,"  said  the  matron.  "  You  never  know  what  men  will 
do  till  you've  known  them.  And  then  you  need  be  surprised 
at  nothing,  nothing.  I'm  surprised  at  nothing  they  do — " 

"  I  must  say,"  said  Alvina,  "  I  was  surprised.  Very  un- 
pleasantly." 

"  But  you  accepted  him  — 

"Anything  to  quieten  him  —  like  a  hysterical  child." 

"Yes,   but  I'm  not  sure  you  haven't   taken   a  very  risky 


way 

a 


HONOURABLE  ENGAGEMENT       301 

y    of    quietening    him,    giving    him    what    he    wanted — " 

'  I  think,"  said  Alvina,  "  I  can  look  after  myself.  I  may 
be  moved  any  day  now." 

"Well — !  "  said  the  matron.  "He  may  prevent  your  get- 
ting moved,  you  know.  He's  on  the  board.  And  if  he  says 
you  are  indispensable  — " 

This  was  a  new  idea  for  Alvina  to  cogitate.  She  had 
counted  on  a  speedy  escape.  She  put  his  ring  in  her  apron 
pocket,  and  there  she  forgot  it  until  he  pounced  on  her  in 
the  afternoon,  in  the  house  of  one  of  her  patients.  He 
waited  for  her,  to  take  her  off. 

"  Where  is  your  ring?  "  he  said. 

And  she  realized  that  it  lay  in  the  pocket  of  a  soiled,  dis- 
carded apron  —  perhaps  lost  for  ever. 

"  I  shan't  wear  it  on  duty,"  she  said.     "  You  know  that." 

She  had  to  go  to  tea  with  him.  She  avoided  his  love- 
making,  by  telling  him  any  sort  of  spooniness  revolted  her. 
And  he  was  too  much  an  old  bachelor  to  take  easily  to  a 
fondling  habit  —  before  marriage,  at  least.  So  he  mercifully 
left  her  alone:  he  was  on  the  whole  devoutly  thankful  she 
wanted  to  be  left  alone.  But  he  wanted  her  to  be  there. 
That  was  his  greatest  craving.  He  wanted  her  to  be  always 
there.  And  so  he  craved  for  marriage:  to  possess  her  en- 
tirely, and  to  have  her  always  there  with  him,  so  that  he 
was  never  alone.  Alone  and  apart  from  all  the  world:  but 
by  her  side,  always  by  her  side. 

"  Now  when  shall  we  fix  the  marriage?  "  he  said.  "  It  is 
no  good  putting  it  back.  We  both  know  what  we  are  doing. 
And  now  the  engagement  is  announced  — " 

He  looked  at  her  anxiously.  She  could  see  the  hysterical 
little  boy  under  the  great,  authoritative  man. 

"Oh,  not  till  after  Christmas!  "  she  said. 

"  After  Christmas !  "  he  started  as  if  he  had  been  bitten. 
"  Nonsense !  It's  nonsense  to  wait  so  long.  Next  month,  at 
the  latest." 

"  Oh  no,"  she  said.     "  I  don't  think  so  soon." 

"Why  not?  The  sooner  the  better.  You  had  better  send 
in  your  resignation  at  once,  so  that  you're  free." 

"  Oh  but  is  there  any  need?  I  may  be  transferred  for  war 
service." 

"  That's  not  likely.     You're  our  only  maternity  nurse  — " 

And  so  the  days  went  by.     She  had  tea  with  him  practi- 


302  THE  LOST  GIRL 

cally  every  afternoon,  and  she  got  used  to  him.  They  dis- 
cussed the  furnishing  —  she  could  not  help  suggesting  a  few 
alterations,  a  few  arrangements  according  to  her  idea.  And 
he  drew  up  a  plan  of  a  wedding  tour  in  Scotland.  Yet  she 
was  quite  certain  she  would  not  marry  him.  The  matron 
laughed  at  her  certainty.  "  You  will  drift  into  *it,"  she  said. 
"  He  is  tying  you  down  by  too  many  little  threads." 

"Ah,  well,  you'll  see!  "  said  Alvina. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  matron.     "  I  shall  see." 

And  it  was  true  that  Alvina's  will  was  indeterminate,  at  this 
time.  She  was  resolved  not  to  marry.  But  her  will,  like  a 
spring  that  is  hitched  somehow,  did  not  fly  direct  against  the 
doctor.  She  had  sent  in  her  resignation,  as  he  suggested.  JBut 
not  that  she  might  be  free  to  marry  him,  but  that  she  might 
be  at  liberty  to  flee  him.  So  she  told  herself.  Yet  she 
worked  into  his  hands. 

One  day  she  sat  with  the  doctor  in  the  car  near  the  station 
—  it  was  towards  the  end  of  September  —  held  up  by  a  squad 
of  soldiers  in  khaki,  who  were  marching  off  with  their  band 
wildly  playing,  to  embark  on  the  special  troop  train  that  was 
coming  down  from  the  north.  The  town  was  in  great  ex- 
citement. War-fever  was  spreading  everywhere.  Men  were 
rushing  to  enlist  —  and  being  constantly  rejected,  for  it  was 
still  the  days  of  regular  standards. 

As  the  crowds  surged  on  the  pavement,  as  the  soldiers 
tramped  to  the  station,  as  the  traffic  waited,  there  came  a 
certain  flow  in  the  opposite  direction.  The  4:15  train  had 
come  in.  People  were  struggling  along  with  luggage,  children 
were  running  with  spades  and  buckets,  cabs  were  crawling 
along  with  families:  it  was  the  seaside  people  coming  home. 
Alvina  watched  the  two  crowds  mingle. 

And  as  she  watched  she  saw  two  men,  one  carrying  a 
mandoline  case  and  a  suit-case  which  she  knew.  It  was 
Ciccio.  She  did  not  know  the  other  man;  some  theatrical 
individual.  The  two  men  halted  almost  near  the  car,  to  watch 
the  band  go  by.  Alvina  saw  Ciccio  quite  near  to  her.  She 
would  have  liked  to  squirt  water  down  his  brown,  handsome, 
oblivious  neck.  She  felt  she  hated  him.  He  stood  there, 
watching  the  music,  his  lips  curling  in  his  faintly-derisive 
Italian  manner,  as  he  talked  to  the  other  man.  His  eye- 
lashes were  as  long  and  dark  as  ever,  his  eyes  had  still  the 
attractive  look  of  being  set  in  with  a  smutty  finger.  He  had 


HONOURABLE  ENGAGEMENT       303 

got  the  same  brownish  suit  on,  which  she  disliked,  the  same 
black  hat  set  slightly,  jauntily  over  one  eye.  He  looked  com- 
mon: and  yet  with  that  peculiar  southern  aloofness  which 
fave  him  a  certain  beauty  and  distinction  in  her  eyes.  She 
elt  she  hated  him,  rather.  She  felt  she  had  been  let  down  by 
him. 

The  band  had  passed.  A  child  ran  against  the  wheel  of 
the  standing  car.  Alvina  suddenly  reached  forward  and 
made  a  loud,  screeching  flourish  on  the  hooter.  Every  one 
looked  round,  including  the  laden,  tramping  soldiers. 

"We  can't  move  yet,"  said  Dr.  Mitchell. 

But  Alvina  was  looking  at  Ciccio  at  that  moment.  He  had 
turned  with  the  rest,  looking  inquiringly  at  the  car.  And  his 
quick  eyes,  the  whites  of  which  showed  so  white  against  his 
duskiness,  the  yellow  pupils  so  non-human,  met  hers  with  a 
quick  flash  of  recognition.  His  mouth  began  to  curl  in  a  smile 
of  greeting.  But  she  stared  at  him  without  moving  a  muscle, 
just  blankly  stared,  abstracting  every  scrap  of  feeling,  even 
of  animosity  or  coldness,  out  of  her  gaze.  She  saw  the  smile 
die  on  his  lips,  his  eyes  glance  sideways,  and  again  sideways, 
with  that  curious  animal  shyness  which  characterized  him.  It 
was  as  if  he  did  not  want  to  see  her  looking  at  him,  and  ran 
from  side  to  side  like  a  caged  weasel,  avoiding  her  blank, 
glaucous  look. 

She  turned  pleasantly  to  Dr.  Mitchell. 

"What  did  you  say?  "  she  asked  sweetly. 


CHAPTER  XII 

ALLAYE  ALSO   IS  ENGAGED 

ALVINA  found  it  pleasant  to  be  respected  as  she  was  re- 
spected in  Lancaster.  It  is  not  only  the  prophet  who  hath 
honour  save  in  his  own  country:  it  is  every  one  with  indi- 
viduality. In  this  northern  town  Alvina  found  that  her  indi- 
viduality really  told.  Already  she  belonged  to  the  revered 
caste  of  medicine-men.  And  into  the  bargain  she  was  a 
personality,  a  person. 

Well  and  good.  She  was  not  going  to  cheapen  herself. 
She  felt  that  even  in  the  eyes  of  the  natives  —  the  well-to-do 
part,  at  least  —  she  lost  a  little  of  her  distinction  when  she 
was  engaged  to  Dr.  Mitchell.  The  engagement  had  been 
announced  in  The  Times,  The  Morning  Post,  The  Manchester 
Guardian,  and  the  local  News.  No  fear  about  its  being  known. 
And  it  cast  a  slight  slur  of  vulgar  familiarity  over  her.  In 
Woodhouse,  she  knew,  it  elevated  her  in  the  common  esteem 
tremendously.  But  she  was  no  longer  in  Woodhouse.  She 
was  in  Lancaster.  And  in  Lancaster  her  engagement  pigeon- 
holed her.  Apart  from  Dr.  Mitchell  she  had  a  magic  poten- 
tiality. Connected  with  him,  she  was  a  known  and  labelled 
quantity. 

This  she  gathered  from  her  contact  with  the  local  gentry. 
The  matron  was  a  woman  of  family,  who  somehow  managed, 
in  her  big,  white,  frilled  cap,  to  be  distinguished  like  an 
abbess  of  old.  The  really  toney  women  of  the  place  came 
to  take  tea  in  her  room,  and  these  little  teas  in  the  hospital 
were  like  a  little  elegant  female  conspiracy.  There  was  a 
slight  flavour  of  art  and  literature  about.  The  matron  had 
known  Walter  Pater,  in  the  somewhat  remote  past. 

Alvina  was  admitted  to  these  teas  with  the  few  women 
who  formed  the  toney  intellectual  elite  of  this  northern  town. 
There  was  a  certain  freemasonry  in  the  matron's  room.  The 
matron,  a  lady-doctor,  a  clergyman's  daughter,  and  the  wives 
of  two  industrial  magnates  of  the  place,  these  five,  and  then 

304 


ALLAYE  ALSO  IS  ENGAGED        305 

Alvina,  formed  the  little  group.  They  did  not  meet  a  great 
deal  outside  the  hospital.  But  they  always  met  with  that 
curious  female  freemasonry  which  can  form  a  law  unto  itself 
even  among  most  conventional  women.  They  talked  as  they 
would  never  talk  before  men,  or  before  feminine  outsiders. 
They  threw  aside  the  whole  vestment  of  convention.  They 
discussed  plainly  the  things  they  thought  about  —  even  the 
most  secret  —  and  they  were  quite  calm  about  the  things  they 
did  —  even  the  most  impossible.  Alvina  felt  that  her  trans- 
gression was  a  very  mild  affair,  and  that  her  engagement  was 
really  infra  dig. 

"And  are  you  going  to  marry  him?  "  asked  Mrs.  Tuke,  with 
a  long,  cool  look. 

"  I  can't  imagine  myself  — "  said  Alvina. 

"  Oh,  but  so  many  things  happen  outside  one's  imagina- 
tion. That's  where  your  body  has  you.  I  can't  imagine 
that  I'm  going  to  have  a  child — "  She  lowered  her  eyelids 
wearily  and  sardonically  over  her  large  eyes. 

Mrs.  Tuke  was  the  wife  of  the  son  of  a  local  manufacturer. 
She  was  about  twenty-eight  years  old,  pale,  with  great  dark- 
grey  eyes  and  an  arched  nose  and  black  hair,  very  like  a 
head  on  one  of  the  lovely  Syracusan  coins.  The  odd  look  of 
a  smile  which  wasn't  a  smile,  at  the  corners  of  the  mouth,  the 
arched  nose,  and  the  slowness  of  the  big,  full,  classic  eyes 
gave  her  the  dangerous  Greek  look  of  the  Syracusan  women 
of  the  past:  the  dangerous,  heavily-civilized  women  of  old 
Sicily:  those  who  laughed  about  the  latomia. 

**  But  do  you  think  you  can  have  a  child  without  wanting 
it  at  all?  "  asked  Alvina. 

"  Oh,  but  there  isn't  one  bit  of  me  wants  it,  not  one  bit. 
My  flesh  doesn't  want  it.  And  my  mind  doesn't  —  yet  there 
it  is!  "  She  spread  her  fine  hands  with  a  flicker  of  inevit- 
ability. 

"  Something  must  want  it,"  said  Alvina. 

"  Oh !  "  said  Mrs.  Tuke.  "  The  universe  is  one  big  machine, 
and  we're  just  part  of  it."  She  flicked  out  her  grey  silk 
handkerchief,  and  dabbed  her  nose,  watching  with  big,  black- 
grey  eyes  the  fresh  face  of  Alvina. 

"  There's  not  one  bit  of  me  concerned  in  having  this  child," 
she  persisted  to  Alvina.  "  My  flesh  isn't  concerned,  and  my 
mind  isn't.  And  yet!  —  le  voila! —  I'm  just  plante.  I  can't 
imagine  why  I  married  Tommy.  And  yet  —  I  did — !  "  She 


306  THE  LOST  GIRL 

shook  her  head  as  if  it  was  all  just  beyond  her,  and  the  pseudo- 
smile  at  the  corners  of  her  ageless  mouth  deepened. 

Alvina  was  to  nurse  Mrs.  Tuke.  The  baby  was  expected 
at  the  end  of  August.  But  already  the  middle  of  September 
was  here,  and  the  baby  had  not  arrived. 

The  Tukes  were  not  very  rich  —  the  young  ones,  that  is. 
Tommy  wanted  to  compose  music,  so  he  lived  on  what  his 
father  gave  him.  His  father  gave  him  a  little  house  outside 
the  town,  a  house  furnished  with  expensive  bits  of  old  furni- 
ture, in  a  way  that  the  townspeople  thought  insane.  But 
there  you  are  —  Effie  would  insist  on  dabbing  a  rare  bit  of 
yellow  brocade  on  the  wall,  instead  of  a  picture,  and  in 
painting  apple-green  shelves  in  the  recesses  of  the  whitewashed 
wall  of  the  dining-room.  Then  she  enamelled  the  hall-furni- 
ture yellow,  and  decorated  it  with  curious  green  and  lavender 
lines  and  flowers,  and  had  unearthly  cushions  and  Sardinian 
pottery  with  unspeakable  peaked  griffins. 

What  were  you  to  make  of  such  a  woman!  Alvina  slept 
in  her  house  these  days,  instead  of  at  the  hospital.  For 
Effie  was  a  very  bad  sleeper.  She  would  sit  up  in  bed,  the 
two  glossy  black  plaits  hanging  beside  her  white,  arch  face, 
wrapping  loosely  round  her  her  dressing-gown  of  a  sort  of 
plumbago-coloured,  dark-grey  silk  lined  with  fine  silk  of 
metallic  blue,  and  there,  ivory  and  jet-black  and  grey  like 
black-lead,  she  would  sit  in  the  white  bed-clothes  flicking 
her  handkerchcief  and  revealing  a  flicker  of  kingfisher-blue 
silk  and  white  silk  night  dress,  complaining  of  her  neuritis 
nerve  and  her  own  impossible  condition,  and  begging  Alvina  to 
stay  with  her  another  half-hour,  and  suddenly  studying  the 
big,  blood-red  stone  on  her  finger  as  if  she  was  reading  some- 
thing in  it. 

"I  believe  I  shall  be  like  the  woman  in  the  Cent  Nouvelles 
and  carry  my  child  for  five  years.  Do  you  know  that  story? 
She  said  that  eating  a  parsley  leaf  on  which  bits  of  snow  were 
sticking  started  the  child  in  her.  It  might  just  as  well  — " 

Alvina  would  laugh  and  get  tired.  There  was  about  her 
a  kind  of  half  bitter  sanity  and  nonchalance  which  the  nerv- 
ous woman  liked. 

One  night  as  they  were  sitting  thus  in  the  bedroom,  at 
nearly  eleven  o'clock,  they  started  and  listened.  Dogs  in 
the  distance  had  also  started  to  yelp.  A  mandoline  was  wail- 
ing its  vibration  in  the  night  outside,  rapidly,  delicately  quiv- 


ALLAYE  ALSO  IS  ENGAGED        307 

ering.  Alvina  went  pale.  She  knew  it  was  Ciccio.  She  had 
seen  him  lurking  in  the  streets  of  the  town,  but  had  never 
spoken  to  him. 

"  What's  this?  "  cried  Mrs.  Tuke,  cocking  her  head  on  one 
side.  "Music!  A  mandoline!  How  extraordinary!  Do 
you  think  it's  a  serenade?  — "  And  she  lifted  her  brows 
archly. 

"  I  should  think  it  is,"  said  Alvina. 

"How  extraordinary!  What  a  moment  to  choose  to 
serenade  the  lady!  Isn't  it  like  life — !  I  must  look  at 
it—" 

She  got  out  of  bed  with  some  difficulty,  wrapped  her 
dressing-gown  round  her,  pushed  her  feet  into  slippers,  and 
went  to  the  window.  She  opened  the  sash.  It  was  a  lovely 
moonlight  night  of  September.  Below  lay  the  little  front 
garden,  with  its  short  drive  and  its  iron  gates  that  closed  on 
the  high-road.  From  the  shadow  of  the  high-road  came  the 
noise  of  the  mandoline. 

"  Hello,  Tommy !  "  called  Mrs.  Tuke  to  her  husband,  whom 
she  saw  on  the  drive  below  her.  "  How's  your  musical 
ear-?'^ 

"All  right.  Doesn't  it  disturb  you?  "  came  the  man's  voice 
from  the  moonlight  below. 

"Not  a  bit.  I  like  it.  I'm  waiting  for  the  voice.  "0 
Richard,  0  mon  roi!  9 — " 

But  the  music  had  stopped. 

"There!  "  cried  Mrs.  Tuke.  "You've  frightened  him  off! 
And  we're  dying  to  be  serenaded,  aren't  we,  nurse?  "  She 
turned  to  Alvina.  "  Do  give  me  my  fur,  will  you?  Thanks 
so  much.  Won't  you  open  the  other  window  and  look  out 
there—?" 

Alvina  went  to  the  second  window.     She  stood  looking  out. 

"  Do  play  again !  "  Mrs.  Tuke  called  into  the  night.  "  Do 
sing  something."  And  with  her  white  arm  she  reached  for 
a  glory  rose  that  hung  in  the  moonlight  from  the  wall,  and 
with  a  flash  of  her  white  arm  she  flung  it  toward  the  garden 
wall  —  ineffectually,  of  course. 

"Won't  you  play  again?  "  she  called  into  the  night,  to  the 
unseen.  "  Tommy,  go  indoors,  the  bird  won't  sing  when 
you're  about." 

"  It's  an  Italian  by  the  sound  of  him.  Nothing  I  hate 
more  than  emotional  Italian  music.  Perfectly  nauseating." 


308  THE  LOST  GIRL 

"Never  mind,  dear.  I  know  it  sounds  as  if  all  their  in- 
sides  were  coming  out  of  their  mouth.  But  we  want  to  be 
serenaded,  don't  we,  nurse?  — " 

Alvina  stood  at  her  window,  but  did  not  answer. 

"Ah-h?"  came  the  odd  query  from  Mrs.  Tuke.  "Don't 
you  like  it?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Alvina.     "  Very  much." 

"And  aren't  you  dying  for  the  song?  " 

"  Quite." 

"There!"  cried  Mrs.  Tuke,  into  the  moonlight.  "Una 
canzone  bella-bella  —  molto  bella — " 

She  pronounced  her  syllables  one  by  one,  calling  into  the 
night.  It  sounded  comical.  There  came  a  rude  laugh  from 
the  drive  below. 

"  Go  indoors,  Tommy !  He  won't  sing  if  you're  there. 
Nothing  will  sing  if  you're  there,"  called  the  young  woman. 

They  heard  a  footstep  on  the  gravel,  and  then  the  slam  of 
the  hall  door. 

"Now!"  cried  Mrs.  Tuke. 

They  waited.  And  sure  enough,  came  the  fine  tinkle  of 
the  mandoline,  and  after  a  few  moments,  the  song.  It  was 
one  of  the  well-known  Neapolitan  songs,  and  Ciccio  sang  it  as 
it  should  be  sung. 

Mrs.  Tuke  went  across  to  Alvina. 

"  Doesn't  he  put  his  bowels  into  it  — ?  "  she  said,  laying 
her  hand  on  her  own  full  figure,  and  rolling  her  eyes  mock- 
ingly. "  I'm  sure  it's  more  effective  than  senna-pods." 

Then  she  returned  to  her  own  window,  huddled  her  furs 
over  her  breast,  and  rested  her  white  elbows  in  the  moon- 
light. 

"Torn'  a  Surrientu 
Fammi  campar — " 

The  song  suddenly  ended,  in  a  clamorous,  animal  sort  of 
yearning.  Mrs.  Tuke  was  quite  still,  resting  her  chin  on  her 
fingers.  Alvina  also  was  still.  Then  Mrs.  Tuke  slowly 
reached  for  the  rose-buds  on  the  old  wall. 

"Molto  bella!  "  she  cried,  half  ironically.  "Molto  bella! 
Je  vous  envoie  une  rose — "  And  she  threw  the  roses  out 
on  to  the  drive.  A  man's  figure  was  seen  hovering  outside 
the  gate,  on  the  high-road.  "  Entrez !  "  called  Mrs.  Tuke. 


ALLAYE  ALSO  IS  ENGAGED        309 

"Entrez!     Prenez  votre  rose.     Come  in  and  take  your  rose." 

The  man's  voice  called  something  from  the  distance. 

"  What?  "  cried  Mrs.  Tuke. 

"  Je  ne  peux  pas  entrer." 

"Vous  ne  pouvez  pas  entrer?  Pourquoi  alors!  La  porte 
n'est  pas  fermee  a  clef.  Entrez  done!  " 

"  Non.  On  n'entre  pas  — "  called  the  well-known  voice  of 
Ciccio. 

"  Quoi  faire,  alors!  Alvina,  take  him  the  rose  to  the  gate, 
will  you?  Yes  do!  Their  singing  is  horrible,  I  think.  I 
can't  go  down  to  him.  But  do  take  him  the  roses,  and  see 
what  he  looks  like.  Yes  do!  "  Mrs.  Tuke's  eyes  were  arched 
and  excited.  Alvina  looked  at  her  slowly.  Alvina  also  was 
smiling  to  herself. 

She  went  slowly  down  the  stairs  and  out  of  the  front  door. 
From  a  bush  at  the  side  she  pulled  two  sweet-smelling  roses. 
Then  in  the  drive  she  picked  up  Effife's  flowers.  Ciccio  was 
standing  outside  the  gate. 

"  Allaye!  "  he  said,  in  a  soft,  yearning  voice. 

"  Mrs.  Tuke  sent  you  these  roses,"  said  Alvina,  putting  the 
flowers  through  the  bars  of  the  gate. 

"Allaye!  "  he  said,  caressing  her  hand,  kissing  it  with  a 
soft,  passionate,  yearning  mouth.  Alvina  shivered.  Quickly 
he  opened  the  gate  and  drew  her  through.  He  drew  her  into 
the  shadow  of  the  wall,  and  put  his  arms  round  her,  lifting 
her  from  her  feet  with  passionate  yearning. 

"Allaye!"  he  said.  "I  love  you,  Allaye,  my  beautiful, 
Allaye.  I  love  you,  Allaye!  "  He  held  her  fast  to  his  breast 
and  began  to  walk  away  with  her.  His  throbbing,  muscular 
power  seemed  completely  to  envelop  her.  He  was  just  walk- 
ing away  with  her  down  the  road,  clinging  fast  to  her,  en- 
veloping her. 

"Nurse!  Nurse!  I  can't  see  you!  Nurse! — "  came  the 
long  call  of  Mrs.  Tuke  through  the  night.  Dogs  began  to  bark. 

"  Put  me  down,"  murmured  Alvina.  "  Put  me  down, 
Ciccio." 

"  Come  with  me  to  Italy.  Come  with  me  to  Italy,  Allaye. 
I  can't  go  to  Italy  by  myself,  Allaye.  Come  with  me,  be 
married  to  me  —  Allaye,  Allaye — " 

His  voice  was  a  strange,  hoarse  whisper  just  above  her 
face,  he  still  held  her  in  his  throbbing,  heavy  embrace. 


310  THE  LOST  GIRL 

"  Yes  —  yes !  "  she  whispered.  "  Yes  —  yes !  But  put  me 
down,  Ciccio.  Put  me  down." 

"  Come  to  Italy  with  me,  Allaye.  Come  with  me,"  he  still 
reiterated,  in  a  voice  hoarse  with  pain  and  yearning. 

"Nurse!  Nurse!  Wherever  are  you?  Nurse!  I  want 
you,"  sang  the  uneasy,  querulous  voice  of  Mrs.  Tuke. 

"  Do  put  me  down !  "  murmured  Alvina,  stirring  in  his 
arms. 

He  slowly  relaxed  his  clasp,  and  she  slid  down  like  rain 
to  earth.  But  still  he  clung  to  her. 

"Come  with  me,  Allaye!  Come  with  me  to  Italy!"  he 
said. 

She  saw  his  face,  beautiful,  non-human  in  the  moonlight, 
and  she  shuddered  slightly. 

"Yes!"  she  said.  "I  will  come.  But  let  me  go  now. 
Where  is  your  mandoline?  " 

He  turned  round  and  looked  up  the  road. 

"  Nurse !  You  absolutely  must  come.  I  can't  bear  it," 
cried  the  strange  voice  of  Mrs.  Tuke. 

Alvina  slipped  from  the  man,  who  was  a  little  bewildered, 
and  through  the  gate  into  the  drive. 

"  You  must  come !  "  came  the  voice  in  pain  from  the  upper 
window. 

Alvina  ran  upstairs.  She  found  Mrs.  Tuke  crouched  in  a 
chair,  with  a  drawn,  horrified,  terrified  face.  As  her  pains 
suddenly  gripped  her,  she  uttered  an  exclamation,  and  pressed 
her  clenched  fists  hard  on  her  face. 

"  The  pains  have  begun,"  said  Alvina,  hurrying  to  her. 

"Oh,  it's  horrible!  It's  horrible!  I  don't  want  it!  "  cried 
the  woman  in  travail.  Alvina  comforted  her  and  reassured 
her  as  best  she  could.  And  from  outside,  once  more,  came 
the  despairing  howl  of  the  Neapolitan  song,  animal  and  in- 
human on  the  night. 

"E  tu  die'    Io  part',  addio! 
T'alluntare  di  sta  core, 
Nel  paese  del  a  more 
Tien'  o  cor'  di  non  turnar' 
—  Ma  nun  me  lasciar' — " 

It  was  almost  unendurable.  But  suddenly  Mrs.  Tuke  be- 
came quite  still,  and  sat  with  her  fists  clenched  on  her  knees, 


ALLAYE  ALSO  IS  ENGAGED       311 

her  two  jet-black  plaits  dropping  on  either  side  of  her  ivory 
face,  her  big  eyes  fixed  staring  into  space.  At  the  line  — 

Ma  nun  me  lasciar' — 

she  began  to  murmur  softly  to  herself — "Yes,  it's  dreadful! 
It's  horrible!  I  can't  understand  it.  What  does  it  mean,  that 
noise?  It's  as  bad  as  these  pains.  What  does  it  mean? 
What  does  he  say?  I  can  understand  a  little  Italian—"  She 
paused.  And  again  came  the  sudden  complaint: 

Ma  nun  me  lasciar' — 

"  Ma  nun  me  lasciar' — !  "  she  murmured,  repeating  the 
music.  "That  means  —  Don't  leave  me!  Don't  leave  me! 
But  why?  Why  shouldn't  one  human  being  go  away  from 
another?  What  does  it  mean?  That  awful  noise!  Isn't  love 
the  most  horrible  thing!  I  think  it's  horrible.  It  just  does 
one  in,  and  turns  one  into  a  sort  of  howling  animal.  I'm 
howling  with  one  sort  of  pain,  he's  howling  with  another. 
Two  hellish  animals  howling  through  the  night!  I'm  not 
myself,  he's  not  himself.  Oh,  I  think  it's  horrible.  What 
does  he  look  like,  Nurse?  Is  he  beautiful?  Is  he  a  great 
hefty  brute?  " 

She  looked  with  big,  slow,  enigmatic  eyes  at  Alvina. 
"  He's  a  man  I  knew  before,"  said  Alvina. 
Mrs.  Tuke's  face  woke  from  its  half -trance. 
"Really!     Oh!     A  man  you  knew  before!     Where?" 
"  It's  a  long  story,"  said  Alvina.     "  In  a  travelling  music- 
hall  troupe." 

"  In  a  travelling  music-hall  troupe !  How  extraordinary ! 
Why,  how  did  you  come  across  such  an  individual  — ?  " 

Alvina  explained  as  briefly  as  possible.  Mrs.  Tuke  watched 
her. 

"Really!"  she  said.  "You've  done  all  those  things!" 
And  she  scrutinized  Alvina's  face.  "  You've  had  some  effect 
on  him,  that's  evident,"  she  said.  Then  she  shuddered,  and 
dabbed  her  nose  with  her  handkerchief.  "  Oh,  the  flesh  is  a 
beastly  thing !  "  she  cried.  "  To  make  a  man  howl  outside 
there  like  that,  because  you're  here.  And  to  make  me  howl 
because  I've  got  a  child  inside  me.  It's  unbearable!  What 
does  he  look  like,  really?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Alvina.  "  Not  extraordinary.  Rather 
a  hefty  brute  — " 


312  THE  LOST  GIRL 

Mrs.  Tuke  glanced  at  her,  to  detect  the  irony. 

"  I  should  like  to  see  him,"  she  said.  "  Do  you  think  I 
might?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Alvina,  non-committal. 

"  Do  you  think  he  might  come  up  ?  Ask  him.  Do  let  me 
see  him." 

"Do  you  really  want  to?  "  said  Alvina. 

"  Of  course  — "  Mrs.  Tuke  watched  Alvina  with  big,  dark, 
slow  eyes.  Then  she  dragged  herself  to  her  feet.  Alvina 
helped  her  into  bed. 

"  Do  ask  him  to  come  up  for  a  minute,"  Effie  said.  "  We'll 
give  him  a  glass  of  Tommy's  famous  port.  Do  let  me  see 
him.  Yes  do!  "  She  stretched  out  her  long  white  arm  to 
Alvina,  with  sudden  imploring. 

Alvina  laughed,  and  turned  doubtfully  away. 

The  night  was  silent  outside.  But  she  found  Ciccio  leaning 
against  a  gate-pillar.  He  started  up. 

"Allaye!"  he  said. 

"Will  you  come  in  for  a  moment?  I  can't  leave  Mrs. 
Tuke." 

Ciccio  obediently  followed  Alvina  into  the  house  and  up  the 
stairs,  without  a  word.  He  was  ushered  into  the  bedroom. 
He  drew  back  when  he  saw  Effie  in  the  bed,  sitting  with  her 
long  plaits  and  her  dark  eyes,  and  the  subtle-seeming  smile 
at  the  corners  of  her  mouth. 

"  Do  come  in !  "  she  said.  "  I  want  to  thank  you  for  the 
music.  Nurse  says  it  was  for  her,  but  I  enjoyed  it  also. 
Would  you  tell  me  the  words?  I  think  it's  a  wonderful 
song." 

Ciccio  hung  back  against  the  door,  his  head  dropped,  and 
the  shy,  suspicious,  faintly  malicious  smile  on  his  face. 

"  Have  a  glass  of  port,  do !  "  said  Effie.  "  Nurse,  give  us 
all  one.  I  should  like  one  too.  And  a  biscuit."  Again  she 
stretched  out  her  long  white  arm  from  the  sudden  blue  lining 
of  her  wrap,  suddenly,  as  if  taken  with  the  desire.  Ciccio 
shifted  on  his  feet,  watching  Alvina  pour  out  the  port. 

He  swallowed  his  in  one  swallow,  and  put  aside  his  glass. 
"Have  some  more!  "  said  Effie,  watching  over  the  top  of 
her  glass. 

He  smiled  faintly,  stupidly,  and  shook  his  head. 

"  Won't  you?     Now  tell  me  the  words  of  the  song  — " 

He  looked  at  her  from  out  of  the  dusky  hollows  of  his 


ALLAYE  ALSO  IS  ENGAGED        313 

brow,  and  did  not  answer.  The  faint,  stupid  half -smile,  half- 
sneer  was  on  his  lips. 

"  Won't  you  tell  them  me?     I  understood  one  line  — " 

Ciccio  smiled  more  pronouncedly  as  he  watched  her,  but  did 
not  speak. 

"  I  understood  one  line,"  said  Effie,  making  big  eyes  at  him. 
"Ma  non  me  lasciare  —  Don't  leave  me!  There,  isn't  that 
it?" 

He  smiled,  stirred  on  his  feet,  and  nodded. 

"Don't  leave  me!  There,  I  knew  it  was  that.  Why  don't 
you  want  Nurse  to  leave  you?  Do  you  want  her  to  be  with 
you  every  minute?  " 

He  smiled  a  little  contemptuously,  awkwardly,  and  turned 
aside  his  face,  glancing  at  Alvina.  Effie's  watchful  eyes 
caught  the  glance.  It  was  swift,  and  full  of  the  terrible 
yearning  which  so  horrified  her. 

At  the  same  moment  a  spasm  crossed  her  face,  her  expres- 
sion went  blank. 

"Shall  we  go  down?  "  said  Alvina  to  Ciccio. 

He  turned  immediately,  with  his  cap  in  his  hand,  and  fol- 
lowed. In  the  hall  he  pricked  up  his  ears  as  he  took  the 
mandoline  from  the  chest.  He  could  hear  the  stifled  cries 
and  exclamations  from  Mrs.  Tuke.  At  the  same  moment  the 
door  of  the  study  opened,  and  the  musician,  a  burly  fellow 
with  troubled  hair,  came  out. 

"  Is  that  Mrs.  Tuke?  "  he  snapped  anxiously. 

"  Yes.     The  pains  have  begun,"  said  Alvina. 

"Oh  God!  And  have  you  left  her!"  He  was  quite 
irascible. 

"  Only  for  a  minute,"  said  Alvina. 

But  with  a  Pf\  of  angry  indignation,  he  was  climbing  the 
stairs. 

"  She  is  going  to  have  a  child,"  said  Alvina  to  Ciccio. 
"I  shall  have  to  go  back  to  her."  And  she  held  out  her 
hand. 

He  did  not  take  her  hand,  but  looked  down  into  her  face 
with  the  same  slightly  distorted  look  of  overwhelming  yearn- 
ing, yearning  heavy  and  unbearable,  in  which  he  was  carried 
towards  her  as  on  a  flood. 

"  Allaye!  "  he  said,  with  a  faint  lift  of  the  lip  that  showed 
his  teeth,  like  a  pained  animal:  a  curious  sort  of  smile.  He 
could  not  go  away. 


314  THE  LOST  GIRL 

"  I  shall  have  to  go  back  to  her,"  she  said. 

"  Shall  you  come  with  me  to  Italy,  Allaye?  " 

"  Yes.     Where  is  Madame?  " 

"Gone!     Gigi  —  all  gone." 

"  Gone  where?  " 

"  Gone  back  to  France  —  called  up." 

"  And  Madame  and  Louis  and  Max?  " 

"Switzerland." 

He  stood  helplessly  looking  at  her. 

"  Well,  I  must  go,"  she  said. 

He  watched  her  with  his  yellow  eyes,  from  under  his  long 
black  lashes,  like  some  chained  animal,  haunted  by  doom. 
She  turned  and  left  him  standing. 

She  found  Mrs.  Tuke  wildly  clutching  the  edge  of  the 
sheets,  and  crying:  "No,  Tommy  dear.  I'm  awfully  fond 
of  you,  you  know  I  am.  But  go  away.  Oh  God,  go  away. 
And  put  a  space  between  us.  Put  a  space  between  us!  "  she 
almost  shrieked. 

He  pushed  up  his  hair.  He  had  been  working  on  a  big 
choral  work  which  he  was  composing,  and  by  this  time  he  was 
almost  demented. 

"  Can't  you  stand  my  presence !  "  he  shouted,  and  dashed 
downstairs. 

"Nurse!  "  cried  Effie.  "It's  no  use  trying  to  get  a  grip 
on  life.  You're  just  at  the  mercy  of  Forces'9  she  shrieked 
angrily. 

"WTiy  not?"  said  Alvina.  "There  are  good  life-forces. 
Even  the  will  of  God  is  a  life-force." 

"  You  don't  understand !  I  want  to  be  myself.  And  I'm 
not  myself.  I'm  just  torn  to  pieces  by  Forces.  It's  hor- 
rible—" 

"Well,  it's  not  my  fault.  I  didn't  make  the  universe," 
said  Alvina.  "  If  you  have  to  be  torn  to  pieces  by  forces, 
well,  you  have.  Other  forces  will  put  you  together  again." 

"  I  don't  want  them  to.  I  want  to  be  myself.  I  don't 
want  to  be  nailed  together  like  a  chair,  with  a  hammer.  I 
want  to  be  myself." 

"You  won't  be  nailed  together  like  a  chair.  You  should 
have  faith  in  life." 

"  But  I  hate  life.  It's  nothing  but  a  mass  of  forces.  / 
am  intelligent.  Life  isn't  intelligent.  Look  at  it  at  this 
moment.  Do  you  call  this  intelligent?  Oh  —  Oh!  It's  hor- 


ALLAYE  ALSO  IS  ENGAGED  315. 

rible!  Oh — !  "  She  was  wild  and  sweating  with  her  pains. 
Tommy  flounced  out  downstairs,  heside  himself.  He  was 
heard  talking  to  some  one  in  the  moonlight  outside.  To 
Ciccio.  He  had  already  telephoned  wildly  for  the  doctor. 
But  the  doctor  had  replied  that  Nurse  would  ring  him  up. 

The  moment  Mrs.  Tuke  recovered  her  breath  she  began 
again. 

"  I  hate  life,  and  faith,  and  such  things.  Faith  is  only 
fear.  And  life  is  a  mass  of  unintelligent  forces  to  which 
intelligent  beings  are  submitted.  Prostituted.  Oh  —  oh!  ! 
—  prostituted  — " 

"  Perhaps  life  itself  is  something  bigger  than  intelligence," 
said  Alvina. 

"Bigger  than  intelligence!"  shrieked  Effie.  "Nothing  is 
bigger  than  intelligence.  Your  man  is  a  hefty  brute.  His 
yellow  eyes  aren't  intelligent.  They're  animal — " 

"No,"  said  Alvina.  "Something  else.  I  wish  he  didn't 
attract  me  — " 

"There!  Because  you're  not  content  to  be  at  the  mercy 
of  Forces!  "  cried  Effie.  "  I'm  not.  I'm  not.  I  want  to  be 
myeelf.  And  so  forces  tear  me  to  pieces!  Tear  me  to 
pie  —  eee-  Oh-h-h!  No!—" 

Downstairs  Tommy  had  walked  Ciccio  back  into  the  house 
again,  and  the  two  men  were  drinking  port  in  the  study,  dis- 
cussing Italy,  for  which  Tommy  had  a  great  sentimental 
affection,  though  he  hated  all  Italian  music  after  the  younger 
Scarlatti.  They  drank  port  all  through  the  night,  Tommy 
being  strictly  forbidden  to  interfere  upstairs,  or  even  to  fetch 
the  doctor.  They  drank  three  and  a  half  bottles  of  port,  and 
were  discovered  in  the  morning  by  Alvina  fast  asleep  in  the 
study,  with  the  electric  light  still  burning.  Tommy  slept 
with  his  fair  and  ruffled  head  hanging  over  the  edge  of  the 
couch  like  some  great  loose  fruit,  Ciccio  was  on  the  floor,  face 
downwards,  his  face  in  his  folded  arms. 

Alvina  had  a  great  difficulty  in  waking  the  inert  Ciccio. 
In  the  end,  she  had  to  leave  him  and  rouse  Tommy  first:  who 
in  rousing  fell  off  the  sofa  with  a  crash  which  woke  him  dis- 
agreeably. So  that  he  turned  on  Alvina  in  a  fury,  and  asked 
her  what  the  hell  she  thought  she  was  doing.  In  answer  to 
which  Alvina  held  up  a  finger  warningly,  and  Tommy,  sud- 
denly remembering,  fell  back  as  if  he  had  been  struck. 

"  She  is  sleeping  now,"  said  Alvina. 


316  THE  LOST  GIRL 

"  Is  it  a  boy  or  a  girl?  "  he  cried. 

"  It  isn't  born  yet,"  she  said. 

"Oh  God,  it's  an  accursed  fugue!"  cried  the  bemused 
Tommy.  After  which  they  proceeded  to  wake  Ciccio,  who 
was  like  the  dead  doll  in  Petrushka,  all  loose  and  floppy. 
When  he  was  awake,  however,  he  smiled  at  Alvina,  and  said: 
"Allaye!" 

The  dark,  waking  smile  upset  her  badly. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE   WEDDED   WIFE 

THE  upshot  of  it  all  was  that  Alvina  ran  away  to  Scar- 
borough without  telling  anybody.  It  was  in  the  first  week 
in  October.  She  asked  for  a  week-end,  to  make  some  ar- 
rangements for  her  marriage.  The  marriage  was  presumably 
with  Dr.  Mitchell  —  though  she  had  given  him  no  definite 
word.  However,  her  month's  notice  T/as  up,  so  she  was 
legally  free.  And  therefore  she  packed  a  rather  large  bag 
with  all  her  ordinary  things,  and  set  off  in  her  everyday  dress, 
leaving  the  nursing  paraphernalia  behind. 

She  knew  Scarborough  quite  well:  and  quite  quickly  found 
rooms  which  she  had  occupied  before,  in  a  boarding-house 
where  she  had  stayed  with  Miss  Frost  long  ago.  Having  re- 
covered from  her  journey,  she  went  out  on  to  the  cliffs  on 
the  north  side.  It  was  evening,  and  the  sea  was  before  her. 
What  was  she  to  do? 

She  had  run  away  from  both  men  —  from  Ciccio  as  well  as 
from  Mitchell.  She  had  spent  the  last  fortnight  more  or  less 
avoiding  the  pair  of  them.  Now  she  had  a  moment  to  her- 
self. She  was  even  free  from  Mrs.  Tuke,  who  in  her  own  way 
was  more  exacting  than  the  men.  Mrs.  Tuke  had  a  baby 
daughter,  and  was  getting  well.  Ciccio  was  living  with  the 
Tukes.  Tommy  had  taken  a  fancy  to  him,  and  had  half 
engaged  him  as  a  sort  of  personal  attendant :  the  sort  of  thing 
Tommy  would  do,  not  having  paid  his  butcher's  bills. 

So  Alvina  sat  on  the  cliffs  in  a  mood  of  exasperation.  She 
was  sick  of  being  badgered  about.  She  didn't  really  want  to 
marry  anybody.  Why  should  she?  She  was  thankful  beyond 
measure  to  be  by  herself.  How  sick  she  was  of  other  people 
and  their  importunities!  What  was  she  to  do?  She  decided 
to  offer  herself  again,  in  a  little  while,  for  war  service  —  in  a 
new  town  this  time.  Meanwhile  she  wanted  to  be  by  herself. 

She  made  excursions,  she  walked  on  the  moors,  in  the  brief 
but  lovely  days  of  early  October.  For  three  days  it  was  all 
so  sweet  and  lovely  —  perfect  libercy,  pure,  almost  paradisal. 

317 


318  THE  LOST  GIRL 

The  fourth  day  it  rained:  simply  rained  all  day  long,  and 
was  cold,  dismal,  disheartening  beyond  words.  There  she 
sat,  stranded  in  the  dismalness,  and  knew  no  way  out.  She 
went  to  bed  at  nine  o'clock,  having  decided  in  a  jerk  to  go  to 
London  and  find  work  in  the  war -hospitals  at  once:  not  to 
leave  off  until  she  had  found  it. 

But  in  the  night  she  dreamed  that  Alexander,  her  first 
fiance,  was  with  her  on  the  quay  of  some  harbour,  and  was 
reproaching  her  bitterly,  even  reviling  her,  for  having  come 
too  late,  so  that  they  had  missed  their  ship.  They  were 
there  to  catch  the  boat  —  and  she,  for  dilatoriness,  was  an 
hour  late,  and  she  could  see  the  broad  stern  of  the  steamer 
not  far  off.  Just  an  hour  late.  She  showed  Alexander  her 
watch  —  exactly  ten  o'clock,  instead  of  nine.  And  he  was 
more  angry  than  ever,  because  her  watch  was  slow.  He 
pointed  to  the  harbour  clock  —  it  was  ten  minutes  past  ten. 

When  she  woke  up  she  was  thinking  of  Alexander.  It  was 
such  a  long  time  since  she  had  thought  of  him.  She  won- 
dered if  he  had  a  right  to  be  angry  with  her. 

The  day  was  still  grey,  with  sweepy  rain-clouds  on  the  sea  — 
gruesome,  objectionable.  It  was  a  prolongation  of  yesterday. 
Well,  despair  was  no  good,  and  being  miserable  was  no  good 
either.  She  got  no  satisfaction  out  of  either  mood.  The  only 
thing  to  do  was  to  act:  seize  hold  of  life  and  wring  its  neck. 

She  took  the  time-table  that  hung  in  the  hall:  the  time- 
table, that  magic  carpet  of  today.  When  in  doubt,  move. 
This  was  the  maxim.  Move.  Where  to? 

Another  click  of  a  resolution.  She  would  wire  to  Ciccio 
and  meet  him  —  where?  York  —  Leeds  —  Halifax — ?  She 
looked  up  the  places  in  the  time-table,  and  decided  on  Leeds. 
She  wrote  out  a  telegram,  that  she  would  be  at  Leeds  that 
evening.  Would  he  get  it  in  time?  Chance  it. 

She  hurried  off  and  sent  the  telegram.  Then  she  took  a 
little  luggage,  told  the  people  of  her  house  she  would  be  back 
next  day,  and  set  off.  She  did  not  like  whirling  in  the  direc- 
tion of  Lancaster.  But  no  matter. 

She  waited  a  long  time  for  the  train  from  the  north  to 
come  in.  The  first  person  she  saw  was  Tommy.  He  waved  to 
her  and  jumped  from  the  moving  train. 

"  I  say !  "  he  said.  "  So  glad  to  see  you !  Ciccio  is  with 
me.  Effie  insisted  on  my  coming  to  see  you." 


THE  WEDDED  WIFE  319 

There  was  Ciccio  climbing  down  with  the  bag.  A  sort  of 
servant!  This  was  too  much  for  her. 

"  So  you  came  with  your  valet?  "  she  said,  as  Ciccio  stood 
with  the  bag. 

"  Not  a  bit,"  said  Tommy,  laying  his  hand  on  the  other 
man's  shoulder.  "  We're  the  best  of  friends.  I  don't  carry 
bags  because  my  heart  is  rather  groggy.  I  say,  nurse,  excuse 
me,  but  I  like  you  better  in  uniform.  Black  doesn't  suit 
you.  You  don't  mind — " 

"  Yes,  I  do.  But  I've  only  got  black  clothes,  except  uni- 
forms." 

"Well  look  here  now — !  You're  not  going  on  anywhere 
tonight,  are  you?  " 

"  It  is  too  late." 

"  Well  now,  let's  turn  into  the  hotel  and  have  a  talk.  I'm 
acting  under  Effie's  orders,  as  you  may  gather  — " 

At  the  hotel  Tommy  gave  her. a  letter  from  his  wife:  to  the 
tune  of  —  don't  marry  this  Italian,  you'll  put  yourself  in  a 
wretched  hole,  and  one  wants  to  avoid  getting  into  holes.  / 
know  —  concluded  Effie,  on  a  sinister  note. 

Tommy  sang  another  tune.  Ciccio  was  a  lovely  chap,  a 
rare  chap,  a  treat.  He,  Tommy,  could  quite  understand  any 
woman's  wanting  to  marry  him  —  didn't  agree  a  bit  with 
Effie.  But  marriage,  you  know,  was  so  final.  And  then  with 
this  war  on:  you  never  knew  how  things  might  turn  out:  a 
foreigner  and  all  that.  And  then  —  you  won't  mind  what  I 
say — ?  We  won't  talk  about  class  and  that  rot.  If  the 
man's  good  enough,  he's  good  enough  by  himself.  But  is  he 
your  intellectual  equal,  nurse?  After  all,  it's  a  big  point. 
You  don't  want  to  marry  a  man  you  can't  talk  to.  Ciccio's 
a  treat  to  be  with,  because  he's  so  natural.  But  it  isn't  a 
mental  treat  — 

Alvina  thought  of  Mrs.  Tuke,  who  complained  that  Tommy 
talked  music  and  pseudo-philosophy  by  the  hour  when  he  was 
wound  up.  She  saw  Effie's  long,  outstretched  arm  of  repudia- 
tion and  weariness. 

"Of  course!" — another  of  Mrs.  Tuke's  exclamations. 
"  Why  not  be  atavistic  if  you  can  be,  and  follow  at  a  man's 
heel  just  because  he's  a  man.  Be  like  barbarous  women,  a 
slave." 

During  all  this,  Ciccio  stayed  out  of  the  room,  as  bidden. 


320  THE  LOST  GIRL 

It  was  not  till  Alvina  sat  before  her  mirror  that  he  opened  her 
door  softly,  and  entered. 

"  I  come  in,"  he  said,  and  he  closed  the  door. 

Alvina  remained  with  her  hair-brush  suspended,  watching 
him.  He  came  to  her,  smiling  softly,  to  take  her  in  his  arms. 
But  she  put  the  chair  between  them. 

"  Why  did  you  bring  Mr.  Tuke?  "  she  said. 

He  lifted  his  shoulders. 

"  I  haven't  brought  him,"  he  said,  watching  her. 

"  Why  did  you  show  him  the  telegram?  " 

"  It  was  Mrs.  Tuke  took  it." 

"Why  did  you  give  it  her?  " 

"  It  was  she  who  gave  it  me,  in  her  room.  She  kept  it  in  her 
room  till  I  came  and  took  it." 

"All  right,"  said  Alvina.  "Go  back  to  the  Tukes."  And 
she  began  again  to  brush  her  hair. 

Ciccio  watched  her  with  narrowing  eyes. 

"What  you  mean?  "  he  said.  "  I  shan't  go,  Allaye.  You 
come  with  me." 

"  Ha!  "  she  sniffed  scornfully.     "  I  shall  go  where  I  like." 

But  slowly  he  shook  his  head. 

"  You'll  come,  Allaye,"  he  said.  "  You  come  with  me,  with 
Ciccio." 

She  shuddered  at  the  soft,  plaintive  entreaty. 

"  How  can  I  go  with  you?  How  can  I  depend  on  you  at 
all?  " 

Again  he  shook  his  head.  His  eyes  had  a  curious  yellow 
fire,  beseeching,  plaintive,  with  a  demon  quality  of  yearning 
compulsion. 

"Yes,  you  come  with  me,  Allaye.  You  come  with  me,  to 
Italy.  You  don't  go  to  that  other  man.  He  is  too  old,  not 
healthy.  You  come  with  me  to  Italy.  Why  do  you  send  a 
telegram?  " 

Alvina  sat  down  and  covered  her  face,  trembling. 

"  I  can't !     I  can't !     I  can't !  "  she  moaned.     "  I  can't  do  it." 

"  Yes,  you  come  with  me.  I  have  money.  You  come  with 
me,  to  my  place  in  the  mountains,  to  my  uncle's  house.  Fine 
house,  you  like  it.  Come  with  me,  Allaye." 

She  could  not  look  at  him. 

"  Why  do  you  want  me?  "  she  said. 

"Why  I  want  you?  "  He  gave  a  curious  laugh,  almost  of 
ridicule.  "I  don't  know  that.  You  ask  me  another,  eh?  " 


THE  WEDDED  WIFE  321 

She  vas  silent,  sitting  looking  downwards. 

"  I  can't,  I  think,"  she  said  abstractedly,  looking  up  at  him. 

He  smiled,  a  fine,  subtle  smile,  like  a  demon's,  but  inex- 
pressibly gentle.  He  made  her  shiver  as  if  she  was  mes- 
merized. And  he  was  reaching  forward  to  her  as  a  snake 
reaches,  nor  could  she  recoil. 

"You  come,  Allaye,"  he  said  softly,  with  his  foreign  in- 
tonation. "You  come.  You  come  to  Italy  with  me.  Yes?  " 
He  put  his  hand  on  her,  and  she  started  as  if  she  had  been 
struck.  But  his  hands,  with  the  soft,  powerful  clasp,  only 
closed  her  faster. 

"Yes?  "  he  said.  "Yes?  All  right,  eh?  All  right!  "— 
he  had  a  strange  mesmeric  power  over  her,  as  if  he  possessed 
the  sensual  secrets,  and  she  was  to  be  subjected. 

"I  can't,"  she  moaned,  trying  to  struggle.  But  she  was 
powerless. 

Dark  and  insidious  he  was:  he  had  no  regard  for  her.  How 
could  a  man's  movements  be  so  soft  and  gentle,  and  yet  so 
inhumanly  regardless!  He  had  no  regard  for  her.  Why 
didn't  she  revolt?  Why  couldn't  she?  She  was  as  if  be- 
witched. She  couldn't  fight  against  her  bewitchment.  Why? 
Because  he  seemed  to  her  beautiful,  so  beautiful.  And  this 
left  her  numb,  submissive.  Why  must  she  see  him  beautiful? 
Why  was  she  will-less?  She  felt  herself  like  one  of  the  old 
sacred  prostitutes :  a  sacred  prostitute. 

In  the  morning,  very  early,  they  left  for  Scarborough, 
leaving  a  letter  for  the  sleeping  Tommy.  In  Scarborough  they 
went  to  the  registrar's  office:  they  could  be  married  in  a  fort- 
night's time.  And  so  the  fortnight  passed,  and  she  was  under 
his  spell.  Only  she  knew  it.  She  felt  extinguished.  Ciccio 
talked  to  her:  but  only  ordinary  things.  There  was  no  won- 
derful intimacy  of  speech,  such  as  she  had  always  imagined, 
and  always  craved  for.  No.  He  loved  her  —  but  it  was  in  a 
dark,  mesmeric  way,  which  did  not  let  her  be  herself.  His 
love  did  not  stimulate  her  or  excite  her.  It  extinguished  her. 
She  had  to  be  the  quiescent,  obscure  woman:  she  felt  as  if  she 
were  veiled.  Her  thoughts  were  dim,  in  the  dim  back  regions 
of  consciousness  —  yet,  somewhere,  she  almost  exulted.  Atav- 
ism !  Mrs.  Tuke's  word  would  play  in  her  mind.  Was  it  atav- 
ism, this  sinking  into  extinction  under  the  spell  of  Ciccio? 
Was  it  atavism,  this  strange,  sleep-like  submission  to  his 
being?  Perhaps  it  was.  Perhaps  it  was.  But  it  was  also 


322  THE  LOST  GIRL 

heavy  and  sweet  and  rich.  Somewhere,  she  was  content. 
Somewhere  even  she  was  vastly  proud  of  the  dark  veiled  eternal 
loneliness  she  felt,  under  his  shadow. 

And  so  it  had  to  be.  She  shuddered  when  she  touched 
him,  because  he  was  so  beautiful,  and  she  was  so  submitted. 
She  quivered  when  he  moved  as  if  she  were  his  shadow.  Yet 
her  mind  remained  distantly  clear.  She  would  criticize  him, 
find  fault  with  him,  the  things  he  did.  But  ultimately  she 
could  find  no  fault  with  him.  She  had  lost  the  power.  She 
didn't  care.  She  had  lost  the  power  to  care  about  his  faults. 
Strange,  sweet,  poisonous  indifference!  She  was  drugged. 
And  she  knew  it.  Would  she  ever  wake  out  of  her  dark, 
warm  coma?  She  shuddered,  and  hoped  not.  Mrs.  Tuke 
would  say  atavism.  Atavism!  The  word  recurred  curiously. 

But  under  all  her  questionings  she  felt  well;  a  nonchalance 
deep  as  sleep,  a  passivity  and  indifference  so  dark  and  sweet 
she  felt  it  must  be  evil.  Evil!  She  was  evil.  And  yet  she 
had  no  power  to  be  otherwise.  They  were  legally  married. 
And  she  was  glad.  She  was  relieved  by  knowing  she  could 
not  escape.  She  was  Mrs.  Marasca.  What  was  the  good  of 
trying  to  be  Miss  Houghton  any  longer?  Marasca,  the  bitter 
cherry.  Some  dark  poison  fruit  she  had  eaten.  How  glad 
she  was  she  had  eaten  it!  How  beautiful  he  was!  And  no 
one  saw  it  but  herself.  For  her  it  was  so  potent  it  made  her 
tremble  when  she  noticed  him.  His  beauty,  his  dark  shadow. 
Ciccio  really  was  much  handsomer  since  his  marriage.  He 
seemed  to  emerge.  Before,  he  had  seemed  to  make  himself 
invisible  in  the  streets,  in  England,  altogether.  But  now 
something  unfolded  in  him,  he  was  a  potent,  glamorous  pres- 
ence, people  turned  to  watch  him.  There  was  a  certain  dark, 
leopard-like  pride  in  the  air  about  him,  something  that  the 
English  people  watched. 

He  wanted  to  go  to  Italy.  And  now  it  was  his  will  which 
counted.  Alvina,  as  his  wife,  must  submit.  He  took  her  to 
London  the  day  after  the  marriage.  He  wanted  to  get  away 
to  Italy.  He  did  not  like  being  in  England,  a  foreigner, 
amid  the  beginnings  of  the  spy  craze. 

In  London  they  stayed  at  his  cousin's  house.  His  cousin 
kept  a  restaurant  in  Battersea,  and  was  a  flourishing  London 
Italian,  a  real  London  product  with  all  the  good  English 
virtues  of  cleanliness  and  honesty  added  to  an  Italian  shrewd- 
ness. His  name  was  Giuseppe  Califano,  and  he  was  pale, 


THE  WEDDED  WIFE  323 

and  he  had  four  children  of  whom  he  was  very  proud.  He 
received  Alvina  with  an  affable  respect,  as  if  she  were  an 
asset  in  the  family,  but  as  if  he  were  a  little  uneasy  and  dis- 
approving. She  had  come  down  in  marrying  Ciccio.  She 
had  lost  caste.  He  rather  seemed  to  exult  over  her  degrada- 
tion. For  he  was  a  northernized  Italian,  he  had  accepted 
English  standards.  His  children  were  English  brats.  He 
almost  patronized  Alvina. 

But  then  a  long,  slow  look  from  her  remote  blue  eyes 
brought  him  up  sharp,  and  he  envied  Ciccio  suddenly,  he 
was  almost  in  love  with  her  himself.  She  disturbed  him. 
She  disturbed  him  in  his  new  English  aplomb  of  a  London 
restaurateur,  and  she  disturbed  in  him  the  old  Italian  dark 
soul,  to  which  he  was  ^renegade.  He  tried  treating  her  as 
an  English  lady.  But  the  slow,  remote  look  in  her  eyes  made 
this  fall  flat.  He  had  to  be  Italian. 

And  he  was  jealous  of  Ciccio.  In  Ciccio 's  face  was  a  lurk- 
ing smile,  and  round  his  fine  nose  there  seemed  a  subtle, 
semi-defiant  triumph.  After  all,  he  had  triumphed  over  his 
well-to-do,  Anglicized  cousin.  With  a  stealthy,  leopard-like 
pride  Ciccio  went  through  the  streets  of  London  in  those  wild 
early  days  of  war.  He  was  the  one  victor,  arching  stealthily 
over  the  vanquished  north. 

Alvina  saw  nothing  of  all  these  complexities.  For  the 
time  being,  she  was  all  dark  and  potent.  Things  were  curious 
to  her.  It  was  curious  to  be  in  Battersea,  in  this  English- 
Italian  household,  where  the  children  spoke  English  more 
readily  than  Italian.  It  was  strange  to  be  high  over  the 
restaurant,  to  see  the  trees  of  the  park,  to  hear  the  clang 
of  trams.  It  was  strange  to  walk  out  and  come  to  the  river. 
It  was  strange  to  feel  the  seethe  of  war  and  dread  in  the  air. 
But  she  did  not  question.  She  seemed  steeped  in  the  passional 
influence  of  the  man,  as  in  some  narcotic.  She  even  forgot 
Mrs.  Tuke's  atavism.  Vague  and  unquestioning  she  went 
through  the  days,  she  accompanied  Ciccio  into  town,  she  went 
with  him  to  make  purchases,  or  she  sat  by  his  side  in  the  music 
hall,  or  she  stayed  in  her  room  and  sewed,  or  she  sat  at  meals 
with  the  Califanos,  a  vague  brightness  on  her  face.  And  Mrs. 
Califano  was  very  nice  to  her,  very  gentle,  though  with  a 
suspicion  of  malicious  triumph,  mockery,  beneath  her  gentle- 
ness. Still,  she  was  nice  and  womanly,  hovering  as 
she  was  between  her  English  emancipation  and  her  Italian 


324  THE  LOST  GIRL 

subordination.  She  half  pitied  Alvina,  and  was  more  than 
half  jealous  of  her. 

Alvina  was  aware  of  nothing  —  only  of  the  presence  of 
Ciccio.  It  was  his  physical  presence  which  cast  a  spell  over 
her.  She  lived  within  his  aura.  And  she  submitted  to  him 
as  if  he  had  extended  his  dark  nature  over  her.  She  knew 
nothing  about  him.  She  lived  mindlessly  within  his  presence, 
quivering  within  his  influence,  as  if  his  blood  beat  in  her. 
She  knew  she  was  subjected.  One  tiny  corner  of  her  knew, 
and  watched. 

He  was  very  happy,  and  his  face  had  a  real  beauty.  His 
eyes  glowed  with  lustrous  secrecy,  like  the  eyes  of  some 
victorious,  happy  wild  creature  seen  remote  under  a  bush. 
And  he  was  very  good  to  her.  His  tenderness  made  her 
quiver  into  a  swoon  of  complete  self-forgetfulness,  as  if  the 
flood-gates  of  her  depths  opened.  The  depth  of  his  warm, 
mindless,  enveloping  love  was  immeasurable.  She  felt  she 
could  sink  forever  into  his  warm,  pulsating  embrace. 

Afterwards,  later  on,  when  she  was  inclined  to  criticize 
him,  she  would  remember  the  moment  when  she  saw  his  face 
at  the  Italian  Consulate  in  London.  There  were  many  people 
at  the  Consulate,  clamouring  for  passports  —  a  wild  and  ill- 
regulated  crowd.  They  had  waited  their  turn  and  got  inside 
—  Ciccio  was  not  good  at  pushing  his  way.  And  inside  a 
courteous  tall  old  man  with  a  white  beard  had  lifted  the 
flap  for  Alvina  to  go  inside  the  office  and  sit  down  to  fill  in 
the  form.  She  thanked  the  old  man,  who  bowed  as  if  he  had 
a  reputation  to  keep  up. 

Ciccio  followed,  and  it  was  he  who  had  to  sit  down  and 
fill  up  the  form,  because  she  did  not  understand  the  Italian 
questions.  She  stood  at  his  side,  watching  the  excited,  laugh- 
ing, noisy,  east-end  Italians  at  the  desk.  The  whole  place  had 
a  certain  free-and-easy  confusion,  a  human,  unofficial, 
muddling  liveliness  which  was  not  quite  like  England,  even 
though  it  was  in  the  middle  of  London. 

"  What  was  your  mother's  name?  "  Ciccio  was  asking  her. 
She  turned  to  him.  He  sat  with  the  pen  perched  flourishingly 
at  the  end  of  his  fingers,  suspended  in  the  serious  and  artistic 
business  of  filling  in  a  form.  And  his  face  had  a  dark 
luminousness,  like  a  dark  transparence  which  was  shut  and 
has  now  expanded.  She  quivered,  as  if  it  was  more  than 
she  could  bear.  For  his  face  was  open  like  a  flower  right 


THE  WEDDED  WIFE  325 

to  the  depths  of  his  soul,  a  dark,  lovely  translucency,  vul- 
nerable to  the  deep  quick  of  his  soul.  The  lovely,  rich 
darkness  of  his  southern  nature,  so  different  from  her  own, 
exposing  itself  now  in  its  passional  vulnerability,  made  her 
go  white  with  a  kind  of  fear.  For  an  instant,  her  face  seemed 
drawn  and  old  as  she  looked  down  at  him,  answering  his 
questions.  Then  her  eyes  became  sightless  with  tears,  she 
stooped  as  if  to  look  at  his  writing,  and  quickly  kissed  his 
fingers  that  held  the  pen,  there  in  the  midst  of  the  crowded, 
vulgar  Consulate. 

He  stayed  suspended,  again  looking  up  at  her  with  the 
bright,  unfolded  eyes  of  a  wild  creature  which  plays  and  is 
not  seen.  A  faint  smile,  very  beautiful  to  her,  was  on  his 
face.  What  did  he  see  when  he  looked  at  her?  She  did  not 
know,  she  did  not  know1.  And  she  would  never  know.  For 
an  instant,  she  swore  inside  herself  that  God  Himself  should 
not  take  her  away  from  this  man.  She  would  commit  herself 
to  him  through  every  eternity.  And  then  the  vagueness  came 
over  her  again,  she  turned  aside,  photographically  seeing  the 
crowd  in  the  Consulate,  but  really  unconscious.  His  move- 
ment as  he  rose  seemed  to  move  her  in  her  sleep,  she  turned 
to  him  at  once. 

It  was  early  in  November  before  they  could  leave  for 
Italy,  and  her  dim,  lustrous  state  lasted  all  the  time.  She 
found  herself  at  Charing  Cross  in  the  early  morning,  in  all 
the  bustle  of  catching  the  Continental  train.  Giuseppe  was 
there,  and  Gemma  his  wife,  and  two  of  the  children,  besides 
three  other  Italian  friends  of  Ciccio.  They  all  crowded  up 
the  platform.  Giuseppe  had  insisted  that  Ciccio  should  take 
second-class  tickets.  They  were  very  early.  Alvina  and  Ciccio 
were  installed  in  a  second-class  compartment,  with  all  their 
packages,  Ciccio  was  pale,  yellowish  under  his  tawny  skin, 
and  nervous.  He  stood  excitedly  on  the  platform  talking  in 
Italian  —  or  rather,  in  his  own  dialect  —  whilst  Alvina  sat 
quite  still  in  her  corner.  Sometimes  one  of  the  women  or  one 
of  the  children  came  to  say  a  few  words  to  her,  or  Giuseppe 
hurried  to  her  with  illustrated  papers.  They  treated  her  as 
if  she  were  some  sort  of  invalid  or  angel,  now  she  was  leav- 
ing. But  most  of  their  attention  they  gave  to  Ciccio,  talking 
at  him  rapidly  all  at  once,  whilst  he  answered,  and  glanced 
in  this  way  and  that,  under  his  fine  lashes,  and  smiled  his  old, 
nervous,  meaningless  smile.  He  was  curiously  upset. 


326  THE  LOST  GIRL 

Time  came  to  shut  the  doors.  The  women  and  children 
kissed  Alvina,  saying: 

"You'll  be  all  right,  eh?  Going  to  Italy—!  "  And  then 
profound  and  meaningful  nods,  which  she  could  not  inter- 
pret, but  which  were  fraught  surely  with  good-fellowship. 

Then  they  all  kissed  Ciccio.  The  men  took  him  in  their 
arms  and  kissed  him  on  either  cheek,  the  children  lifted  their 
faces  in  eager  anticipation  of  the  double  kiss.  Strange,  how 
eager  they  were  for  this  embrace  —  how  they  all  kept  taking 
Ciccio's  hand,  one  after  the  other,  whilst  he  smiled  con- 
strainedly and  nervously. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE   JOURNEY  ACROSS 

THE  train  began  to  move.  Giuseppe  ran  alongside,  hold- 
ing Ciccio's  hand  still;  the  women  and  children  were  crying 
and  waving  their  handkerchiefs,  the  other  men  were  shouting 
messages,  making  strange,  eager  gestures.  And  Alvina  sat 
quite  still,  wonderingly.  And  so  the  big,  heavy  train  drew 
out,  leaving  the  others  small  and  dim  on  the  platform.  It  was 
foggy,  the  river  was  %a  sea  of  yellow  beneath  the  ponderous 
iron  bridge.  The  morning  was  dim  and  dank. 

The  train  was  very  full.  Next  to  Alvina  sat  a  trim  French- 
woman reading  L'Aiglon.  There  was  a  terrible  encumbrance 
of  packages  and  luggage  everywhere.  Opposite  her  sat  Ciccio, 
his  black  overcoat  open  over  his  pale-grey  suit,  his  black  hat  a 
little  over  his  left  eye.  He  glanced  at  her  from  time  to  time, 
smiling  constrainedly.  She  remained  very  still.  They  ran 
through  Bromley  and  out  into  the  open  country.  It  was  grey, 
with  shivers  of  grey  sunshine.  On  the  downs  there  was  thin 
snow.  The  air  in  the  train  was  hot,  heavy  with  the  crowd 
and  tense  with  excitement  and  uneasiness.  The  train  seemed  to 
rush  ponderously,  massively,  across  the  Weald. 

And  so,  through  Folkestone  to  the  sea.  There  was  sun  in 
the  sky  now,  and  white  clouds,  in  the  sort  of  hollow  sky- 
dome  above  the  grey  earth  with  its  horizon  walls  of  fog. 
The  air  was  still.  The  sea  heaved  with  a  sucking  noise  in- 
side the  dock.  Alvina  and  Ciccio  sat  aft  on  the  second-class 
deck,  their  bags  near  them.  He  put  a  white  muffler  round 
himself,  Alvina  hugged  herself  in  her  beaver  scarf  and  muff. 
She  looked  tender  and  beautiful  in  her  still  vagueness,  and 
Ciccio,  hovering  about  her,  was  beautiful  too,  his  estrange- 
ment gave  him  a  certain  wistful  nobility  which  for  the  mo- 
ment put  him  beyond  all  class  inferiority.  The  passengers 
glanced  at  them  across  the  magic  of  estrangement. 

The  sea  was  very  still.  The  sun  was  fairly  high  in  the 
open  sky,  where  white  cloud-tops  showed  against  the  pale, 

327 


328  THE  LOST  GIRL 

wintry  blue.  Across  the  sea  came  a  silver  sun-track.  And 
Alvina  and  Ciccio  looked  at  the  sun,  which  stood  a  little  to 
the  right  of  the  ship's  course. 

"  The  sun !  "  said  Ciccio,  nodding  towards  the  orb  and 
smiling  to  her. 

"  I  love  it,"  she  said. 

He  smiled  again,  silently.  He  was  strangely  moved:  she 
did  not  know  why. 

The  wind  was  cold  over  the  wintry  sea,  though  the  sun's 
beams  were  warm.  They  rose,  walked  round  the  cabins. 
Other  ships  were  at  sea  —  destroyers  and  battleships,  grey, 
low,  and  sinister  on  the  water.  Then  a  tall  bright  schooner 
glimmered  far  down  the  channel.  Some  brown  fishing  smacks 
kept  together.  All  was  very  still  in  the  wintry  sunshine  of 
the  Channel. 

So  they  turned  to  walk  to  the  stern  of  the  boat.  And 
Alvina's  heart  suddenly  contracted.  She  caught  Ciccio's  arm, 
as  the  boat  rolled  gently.  For  there  behind,  behind  all  the 
sunshine,  was  England.  England,  beyond  the  water,  rising 
with  ash-grey,  corpse-grey  cliffs,  and  streaks  of  snow  on  the 
downs  above.  England,  like  a  long,  ash-grey  coffin  slowly 
submerging.  She  watched  it,  fascinated  and  terrified.  It 
seemed  to  repudiate  the  sunshine,  to  remain  unilluminated, 
long  and  ash-grey  and  dead,  with  streaks  of  snow  like  cere- 
ments. That  was  England!  Her  thoughts  flew  to  Wood- 
house,  the  grey  centre  of  it  all.  Home! 

Her  heart  died  within  her.  Never  had  she  felt  so  utterly 
strange  and  far-off.  Ciccio  at  her  side  was  as  nothing,  as 
spell-bound  she  watched,  away  off,  behind  all  the  sunshine 
and  the  sea,  the  grey,  snow-streaked  substance  of  England 
slowly  receding  and  sinking,  submberging.  She  felt  she  could 
not  believe  it.  It  was  like  looking  at  something  else.  What? 
It  was  like  a  long,  ash-grey  coffin,  winter,  slowly  submerging 
in  the  sea.  England? 

She  turned  again  to  the  sun.  But  clouds  and  veils  were 
already  weaving  in  the  sky.  The  cold  was  beginning  to  soak 
in,  moreover.  She  sat  very  still  for  a  long  time,  almost  an 
eternity.  And  when  she  looked  round  again  there  was  only 
a  bank  of  mist  behind,  beyond  the  sea:  a  bank  of  mist,  and 
a  few  grey,  stalking  ships.  She  must  watch  for  the  coast  of 
France. 

And   there   it   was   already,   looming  up  grey   and   amor- 


THE  JOURNEY  ACROSS  329 

phous,  patched  with  snow.  It  had  a  grey,  heaped,  sordid 
look  in  the  November  light.  She  had  imagined  Boulogne 
gay  and  brilliant.  Whereas  it  was  more  grey  and  dismal  than 
England.  But  not  that  magical,  mystic,  phantom  look. 

The  ship  slowly  put  about,  and  backed  into  the  harbour. 
She  watched  the  quay  approach.  Ciccio  was  gathering  up 
the  luggage.  Then  came  the  first  cry  one  ever  hears: 
"  Porteur!  Porteur!  Want  a  porteur? "  A  porter  in  a 
blouse  strung  the  luggage  on  his  strap,  and  Ciccio  and  Alvina 
entered  the  crush  for  the  exit  and  the  passport  inspection. 
There  was  a  tense,  eager,  frightened  crowd,  and  officials 
shouting  directions  in  French  and  English.  Alvina  found 
herself  at  last  before  a  table  where  bearded  men  in  uniforms 
were  splashing  open  the  big  pink  sheets  of  the  English  pass- 
ports: she  felt  strange  and  uneasy,  that  her  passport  was 
unimpressive  and  Italian.*  The  official  scrutinized  her,  and 
asked  questions  of  Ciccio.  Nobody  asked  her  anything  — 
she  might  have  been  Ciccio's  shadow.  So  they  went  through 
to  the  vast,  crowded  cavern  of  a  Customs  house,  where  they 
found  their  porter  waving  to  them  in  the  mob.  Ciccio  fought 
in  the  mob  while  the  porter  whisked  off  Alvina  to  get  seats 
in  the  big  train.  And  at  last  she  was  planted  once  more  in 
a  seat,  with  Ciccio's  place  reserved  beside  her.  And  there 
she  sat,  looking  across  the  railway  lines  at  the  harbour,  in 
the  last  burst  of  grey  sunshine.  Men  looked  at  her,  offi- 
cials stared  at  her,  soldiers  made  remarks  about  her.  And 
at  last,  after  an  eternity,  Ciccio  came  along  the  platform,  the 
porter  trotting  behind. 

They  sat  and  ate  the  food  they  had  brought,  and  drank 
wine  and  tea.  And  after  weary  hours  the  train  set  off  through 
snow-patched  country  to  Paris.  Everywhere  was  crowded, 
the  train  was  stuffy  without  being  warm.  Next  to  Alvina  sat 
a  large,  fat,  youngish  Frenchman  who  overflowed  over  her 
in  a  hot  fashion.  Darkness  began  to  fall.  The  train  was 
very  late.  There  were  strange  and  frightening  delays. 
Strange  lights  appeared  in  the  sky,  everybody  seemed  to  be 
listening  for  strange  noises.  It  was  all  such  a  whirl  and  con- 
fusion that  Alvina  lost  count,  relapsed  into  a  sort  of  stupidity. 
Gleams,  flashes,  noises  and  then  at  last  the  frenzy  of  Paris. 

It  was  night,  a  black  city,  and  snow  falling,  and  no  train 
that  night  across  to  the  Gare  de  Lyon.  In  a  state  of  semi- 
stupefaction  after  all  the  questionings  and  examinings  and 


330  THE  LOST  GIRL 

blusterings,  they  were  finally  allowed  to  go  straight  across 
Paris.  But  this  meant  another  wild  tussle  with  a  Paris  taxi- 
driver,  in  the  filtering  snow.  So  they  were  deposited  in  the 
Gare  de  Lyon. 

And  the  first  person  who  rushed  upon  them  was  Geoffrey, 
in  a  rather  grimy  private's  uniform.  He  had  already  seen 
some  hard  service,  and  had  a  wild,  bewildered  look.  He 
kissed  Ciccio  and  burst  into  tears  on  his  shoulder,  there  in 
the  great  turmoil  of  the  entrance  hall  of  the  Gare  de  Lyon. 
People  looked,  but  nobody  seemed  surprised.  Geoffrey 
sobbed,  and  the  tears  came  silently  down  Ciccio's  cheeks. 

"  I've  waited  for  you  since  five  o'clock,  and  I've  got  to 
go  back  now.  Ciccio!  Ciccio!  I  wanted  so  badly  to  see 
you.  I  shall  never  see  thee  again,  brother,  my  brother!  " 
cried  Gigi,  and  a  sob  shook  him. 

"Gigi!     Mon  Gigi.     Tu  as  done  regu  ma  lettre?  " 

"Yesterday.     0  Ciccio,  Ciccio,  I  shall  die  without  thee!" 

"  But  no,  Gigi,  frere.     You  won't  die." 

"  Yes,  Ciccio,  I  shall.     I  know  I  shall." 

"  I  say  TIG,  brother,"  said  Ciccio.  But  a  spasm  suddenly 
took  him,  he  pulled  off  his  hat  and  put  it  over  his  face  and 
sobbed  into  it. 

"  Adieu,  ami !  Adieu !  "  cried  Gigi,  clutching  the  other 
man's  arm.  Ciccio  took  his  hat  from  his  tear-stained  face 
and  put  it  on  his  head.  Then  the  two  men  embraced. 

"  Ton  jours  a  toil  "  said  Geoffrey,  with  a  strange,  solemn 
salute  in  front  of  Ciccio  and  Alvina.  Then  he  turned  on  his 
heel  and  marched  rapidly  out  of  the  station,  his  soiled  sol- 
dier's overcoat  flapping  in  the  wind  at  the  door.  Ciccio 
watched  him  go.  Then  he  turned  and  looked  with  haunted 
eyes  into  the  eyes  of  Alvina.  And  then  they  hurried  down 
the  desolate  platform  in  the  darkness.  Many  people,  Italians, 
largely,  were  camped  waiting  there,  while  bits  of  snow  wav- 
ered down.  Ciccio  bought  food  and  hired  cushions.  The 
train  backed  in.  There  was  a  horrible  fight  for  seats,  men 
scrambling  through  windows.  Alvina  got  a  place  —  but 
Ciccio  had  to  stay  in  the  corridor. 

Then  the  long  night  journey  through  France,  slow  and 
blind.  The  train  was  now  so  hot  that  the  iron  plate  on  the 
floor  burnt  Alvina's  feet.  Outside  she  saw  glimpses  of  snow. 
A  fat  Italian  hotel-keeper  put  on  a  smoking  cap,  covered 
the  light,  and  spread  himself  before  Alvina.  In  the  next 


THE  JOURNEY  ACROSS  331 

carriage  a  child  was  screaming.  It  screamed  all  the  night  — 
all  the  way  from  Paris  to  Chambery  it  screamed.  The  train 
came  to  sudden  halts,  and  stood  still  in  the  snow.  The  hotel- 
keeper  snored.  Alvina  became  almost  comatose,  in  the  burn- 
ing heat  of  the  carriage.  And  again  the  train  rumbled  on. 
And  again  she  saw  glimpses  of  stations,  glimpses  of  snow, 
through  the  chinks  in  the  curtained  windows.  And  again 
there  was  a  jerk  and  a  sudden  halt,  a  drowsy  mutter  from  the 
sleepers,  somebody  uncovering  the  light,  and  somebody  cover- 
ing it  again,  somebody  looking  out,  somebody  tramping  down 
the  corridor,  the  child  screaming. 

The  child  belonged  to  two  poor  Italians  —  Milanese  —  a 
shred  of  a  thin  little  man,  and  a  rather  loose  woman.  They 
had  five  tiny  children,  all  boys:  and  the  four  who  could  stand 
on  their  feet  all  wore  scarlet  caps.  The  fifth  was  a  baby. 
Alvina  had  seen  a  French  official  yelling  at  the  poor  shred  of 
a  young  father  on  the  platform. 

When  morning  came,  and  the  bleary  people  pulled  the 
curtains,  it  was  a  clear  dawn,  and  they  were  in  the  south 
of  France.  There  was  no  sign  of  snow.  The  landscape  was 
half  southern,  half  Alpine.  White  houses  with  brownish  tiles 
stood  among  almond  trees  and  cactus.  It  was  beautiful,  and 
Alvina  felt  she  had  known  it  all  before,  in  a  happier  life. 
The  morning  was  graceful  almost  as  spring.  She  went  out 
in  the  corridor  to  talk  to  Ciccio. 

He  was  on  his  feet  with  his  back  to  the  inner  window, 
rolling  slightly  to  the  motion  of  the  train.  His  face  was  pale, 
he  had  that  sombre,  haunted,  unhappy  look.  Alvina,  thrilled 
by  the  southern  country,  was  smiling  excitedly. 

"  This  is  my  first  morning  abroad,"  she  said. 

"Yes,"  he  answered. 

"  I  love  it  here,"  she  said.     "Isn't  this  like  Italy?  " 

He  looked  darkly  out  of  the  window,  and  shook  his  head. 

But  the  sombre  look  remained  on  his  face.  She  watched 
him.  And  her  heart  sank  as  she  had  never  known  it  sink 
before. 

"Are  you  thinking  of  Gigi?  "  she  said. 

He  looked  at  her,  with  a  faint,  unhappy,  bitter  smile,  but 
he  said  nothing.  He  seemed  far  off  from  her.  A  wild  un- 
happiness  beat  inside  her  breast.  She  went  down  the  cor- 
ridor, away  from  him,  to  avoid  this  new  agony,  which  after 
all  was  not  her  agony.  She  listened  to  the  chatter  of  French 


332  THE  LOST  GIRL 

and  Italian  in  the  corridor.  She  felt  the  excitement  and 
terror  of  France,  inside  the  railway  carriage:  and  outside 
she  saw  white  oxen  slowly  ploughing,  beneath  the  lingering 
yellow  poplars  of  the  sub-Alps,  she  saw  peasants  looking  up, 
she  saw  a  woman  holding  a  baby  to  her  breast,  watching 
the  train,  she  saw  the  excited,  yeasty  crowds  at  the  station. 
And  they  passed  a  river,  and  a  great  lake.  And  it  all  seemed 
bigger,  nobler  than  England.  She  felt  vaster  influences 
spreading  around,  the  Past  was  greater,  more  magnificent  in 
these  regions.  For  the  first  time  the  nostalgia  of  the  vast 
Roman  and  classic  world  took  possession  of  her.  And  she 
found  it  splendid.  For  the  first  time  she  opened  her  eyes  on 
a  continent,  the  Alpine  core  of  a  continent.  And  for  the  first 
time  she  realized  what  it  was  to  escape  from  the  smallish 
perfection  of  England,  into  the  grander  imperfection  of  a  great 
continent. 

Near  Chambery  they  went  down  for  breakfast  to  the  restau- 
rant car.  And  secretly,  she  was  very  happy.  Ciccio's  distress 
made  her  uneasy.  But  underneath  she  was  extraordinarily 
relieved  and  glad.  Ciccio  did  not  trouble  her  very  much. 
The  sense  of  the  bigness  of  the  lands  about  her,  the  excite- 
ment of  travelling  with  Continental  people,  the  pleasantness 
of  her  coffee  and  rolls  and  honey,  the  feeling  that  vast 
events  were  taking  place  —  all  this  stimulated  her.  She  had 
brushed,  as  it  were,  the  fringe  of  the  terror  of  the  war  and 
the  invasion.  Fear  was  seething  around  her.  And  yet  she 
was  excited  and  glad.  The  vast  world  was  in  one  of  its 
convulsions,  and  she  was  moving  amongst  it.  Somewhere,  she 
believed  in  the  convulsion,  the  event  elated  her. 

The  train  began  to  climb  up  to  Modane.  How  wonderful 
the  Alps  were !  —  what  a  bigness,  an  unbreakable  power  was 
in  the  mountains!  Up  and  up  the  train  crept,  and  she 
looked  at  the  rocky  slopes,  the  glistening  peaks  of  snow  in 
the  blue  heaven,  the  hollow  valleys  with  fir  trees  and  low- 
roofed  houses.  There  were  quarries  near  the  railway,  and 
men  working.  There  was  a  strange  mountain  town,  dirty- 
looking.  And  still  the  train  climbed  up  and  up,  in  the  hot 
morning  sunshine,  creeping  slowly  round  the  mountain  loops, 
so  that  a  little  brown  dog  from  one  of  the  cottages  ran  along- 
side the  train  for  a  long  way,  barking  at  Alvina,  even  running 
ahead  of  the  creeping,  snorting  train,  and  barking  at  the 
people  ahead.  Alvina,  looking  out,  saw  the  two  unfamiliar 


THE  JOURNEY  ACROSS  333 

engines  snorting  out  their  smoke  round  the  bend  ahead.  And 
the  morning  wore  away  to  midday. 

Ciccio  became  excited  as  they  neared  Modane,  the  frontier 
station.  His  eye  lit  up  again,  he  pulled  himself  together  for 
the  entrance  into  Italy.  Slowly  the  train  rolled  in  to  the 
dismal  station.  And  then  a  confusion  indescribable,  of  por- 
ters and  masses  of  luggage,  the  unspeakable  crush  and  crowd 
at  the  customs  barriers,  the  more  intense  crowd  through  the 
passport  office,  all  like  a  madness. 

They  were  out  on  the  platform  again,  they  had  secured 
their  places.  Ciccio  wanted  to  have  luncheon  in  the  station 
restaurant.  They  went  through  the  passages.  And  there  in 
the  dirty  station  gangways  and  big  corridors  dozens  of  Ital- 
ians were  lying  on  the  ground,  men,  women,  children,  camp- 
ing with  their  bundles  and  packages  in  heaps.  They  were 
either  emigrants  or  refugees.  Alvina  had  never  seen  people 
herd  about  like  cattle,  dumb,  brute  cattle.  It  impressed  her. 
She  could  not  grasp  that  an  Italian  labourer  would  lie  down 
just  where  he  was  tired,  in  the  street,  on  a  station,  in  any 
corner,  like  a  dog. 

In  the  afternoon  they  were  slipping  down  the  Alps  towards 
Turin.  And  everywhere  was  snow  —  deep,  white,  wonderful 
snow,  beautiful  and  fresh,  glistening  in  the  afternoon  light 
all  down  the  mountain  slopes,  on  the  railway  track,  almost 
seeming  to  touch  the  train.  And  twilight  was  falling.  And 
at  the  stations  people  crowded  in  once  more. 

It  had  been  dark  a  long  time  when  they  reached  Turin. 
Many  people  alighted  from  the  train,  many  surged  to  get  in. 
But  Ciccio  and  Alvina  had  seats  side  by  side.  They  were  be- 
coming tired  now.  But  they  were  in  Italy.  Once  more  they 
went  down  for  a  meal.  And  then  the  train  set  off  again  in 
the  night  for  Alessandria  and  Genoa,  Pisa  and  Rome. 

It  was  night,  the  train  ran  better,  there  was  a  more  easy 
sense  in  Italy.  Ciccio  talked  a  little  with  other  travelling 
companions.  And  Alvina  settled  her  cushion,  and  slept  more 
or  less  till  Genoa.  After  the  long  wait  at  Genoa  she  dozed 
off  again.  She  woke  to  see  the  sea  in  the  moonlight  beneath 
her  —  a  lovely  silvery  sea,  coming  right  to  the  carriage.  The 
train  seemed  to  be  tripping  on  the  edge  of  the  Mediterranean, 
round  bays,  and  between  dark  rocks  and  under  castles,  a  night- 
time fairy-land,  for  hours.  She  watched  spell-bound:  spell- 
bound by  the  magic  of  the  world  itself.  And  she  thought  to 


334  THE  LOST  GIRL 

herself:  "  Whatever  life  may  be,  and  whatever  horror  men  have 
made  of  it,  the  world  is  a  lovely  place,  a  magic  place,  some- 
thing to  marvel  over.  The  world  is  an  amazing  place." 

This  thought  dozed  her  off  again.  Yet  she  had  a  con- 
sciousness of  tunnels  and  hills  and  of  broad  marshes  pallid 
under  a  moon  and  a  coming  dawn.  And  in  the  dawn  there 
was  Pisa.  She  watched  the  word  hanging  in  the  station  in 
the  dimness:  "Pisa."  Ciccio  told  her  people  were  changing 
for  Florence.  It  all  seemed  wonderful  to  her  —  wonderful. 
She  sat  and  watched  the  black  station  —  then  she  heard  the 
sound  of  the  child's  trumpet.  And  it  did  not  occur  to  her  to 
connect  the  train's  moving  on  with  the  sound  of  the  trumpet. 

But  she  saw  the  golden  dawn,  a  golden  sun  coming  out  of 
level  country.  She  loved  it.  She  loved  being  in  Italy.  She 
loved  the  lounging  carelessness  of  the  train,  she  liked  having 
Italian  money,  hearing  the  Italians  round  her  —  though  they 
were  neither  as  beautiful  nor  as  melodious  as  she  expected. 
She  loved  watching  the  glowing  antique  landscape.  She  read 
and  read  again :  "  E  pericoloso  sporgersi,"  and  "  E  vietato 
fumare,"  and  the  other  little  magical  notices  on  the  carriages. 
Ciccio  told  her  what  they  meant,  and  how  to  say  them.  And 
sympathetic  Italians  opposite  at  once  asked  him  if  they  were 
married  and  who  and  what  his  bride  was,  and  they  gazed  at 
her  with  bright,  approving  eyes,  though  she  felt  terribly 
bedraggled  and  travel-worn. 

"You  come  from  England?  Yes!  Nice  contry!  "  said  a 
man  in  a  corner,  leaning  forward  to  make  this  display  of  his 
linguistic  capacity. 

"  Not  so  nice  as  this,"  said  Alvina. 

"Eh?" 

Alvina  repeated  herself. 

"Not  so  nice?  Oh?  No!  Fog,  eh!"  The  fat  man 
whisked  his  fingers  in  the  air,  to  indicate  fog  in  the  atmos- 
phere. "But  nice  contry!  Very  —  convenient." 

He  sat  up  in  triumph,  having  achieved  this  word.  And 
the  conversation  once  more  became  a  spatter  of  Italian.  The 
women  were  very  interested.  They  looked  at  Alvina,  at  every 
atom  of  her.  And  she  divined  that  they  were  wondering  if 
she  was  already  with  child.  Sure  enough,  they  were  asking 
Ciccio  in  Italian  if  she  was  "making  him  a  baby."  But  he 
shook  his  head  and  did  not  know,  just  a  bit  constrained.  So 
they  ate  slices  of  sausages  and  bread  and  fried  rice-balls,  with 


THE  JOURNEY  ACROSS  335 

wonderfully  greasy  fingers,  and  they  drank  red  wine  in  big 
throatfuls  out  of  bottles,  and  they  offered  their  fare  to  Ciccio 
and  Alvina,  and  were  charmed  when  she  said  to  Ciccio  she 
would  have  some  bread  and  sausage.  He  picked  the  strips 
off  the  sausage  for  her  with  his  fingers,  and  made  her  a  sand- 
wich with  a  roll.  The  women  watched  her  bite  it,  and  bright- 
eyed  and  pleased  they  said,  nodding  their  heads  — 

"Buono?  Buono?" 

And  she,  who  knew  this  word,  understood,  and  replied: 

"  Yes,  good !  Buono !  "  nodding  her  head  likewise.  Which 
caused  immense  satisfaction.  The  women  showed  the  whole 
paper  of  sausage  slices,  and  nodded  and  beamed  and  said: 

"  Se  vuole  ancora — !  " 

And  Alvina  bit  her  wide  sandwich,  and  smiled,  and  said: 

"Yes,  awfully  nice!  " 

And  the  women  looked  at  each  other  and  said  something, 
and  Ciccio  interposed,  shaking  his  head.  But  one  woman 
ostentatiously  wiped  a  bottle  mouth  with  a  clean  handker- 
chief, and  offered  the  bottle  to  Alvina,  saying: 

"  Vino  buono.  Vecchio !  Vecchio !  "  nodding  violently 
and  indicating  that  she  should  drink.  She  looked  at  Ciccio, 
and  he  looked  back  at  her,  doubtingly. 

"  Shall  I  drink  some?  "  she  said. 

"  If  you  like,"  he  replied,  making  an  Italian  gesture  of 
indifference. 

So  she  drank  some  of  the  wine,  and  it  dribbled  on  to  her 
chin.  She  was  not  good  at  managing  a  bottle.  But  she  liked 
the  feeling  of  warmth  it  gave  her.  She  was  very  tired. 

"  Si  piace?     Piace?  " 

"  Do  you  like  it,"  interpreted  Ciccio. 

"Yes,  very  much.  What  is  very  much?"  she  asked  of 
Ciccio. 

"  Molto." 

"  Si,  molto.  Of  course,  I  knew  molto,  from  music,"  she 
added. 

The  women  made  noises,  and  smiled  and  nodded,  and  so 
the  train  pulsed  on  till  they  came  to  Rome.  There  was  again 
the  wild  scramble  with  luggage,  a  general  leave  taking,  and 
then  the  masses  of  people  on  the  station  at  Rome.  Roma! 
Roma!  What  was  it  to  Alvina  but  a  name,  and  a  crowded, 
excited  station,  and  Ciccio  running  after  the  luggage,  and  the 
pair  of  them  eating  in  a  station  restaurant? 


336  THE  LOST  GIRL 

Almost  immediately  after  eating,  they  were  in  the  train 
once  more,  with  new  fellow  travellers,  running  south  this  time 
towards  Naples.  In  a  daze  of  increasing  weariness  Alvina 
watched  the  dreary,  to  her  sordid-seeming  Campagna  that 
skirts  the  railway,  the  broken  aqueduct  trailing  in  the  near 
distance  over  the  stricken  plain.  She  saw  a  tram-car,  far  out 
from  everywhere,  running  up  to  cross  the  railway.  She  saw 
it  was  going  to  Frascati. 

And  slowly  the  hills  approached  —  they  passed  the  vines  of 
the  foothills,  the  reeds,  and  were  among  the  mountains.  Won- 
derful little  towns  perched  fortified  on  rocks  and  peaks,  moun- 
tains rose  straight  up  off  the  level  plain,  like  old  topographical 
prints,  rivers  wandered  in  the  wild,  rocky  places,  it  all  seemed 
ancient  and  shaggy,  savage  still,  under  all  its  remote  civiliza- 
tion, this  region  of  the  Alban  Mountains  south  of  Rome.  So 
the  train  clambered  up  and  down,  and  went  round  corners. 

They  had  not  far  to  go  now.  Alvina  was  almost  too  tired 
to  care  what  it  would  be  like.  They  were  going  to  Ciccio's 
native  village.  They  were  to  stay  in  the  house  of  his  uncle, 
his  mother's  brother.  This  uncle  had  been  a  model  in  Lon- 
don. He  had  built  a  house  on  the  land  left  by  Ciccio's 
grandfather.  He  lived  alone  now,  for  his  wife  was  dead  and 
his  children  were  abroad.  Giuseppe  was  his  son:  Giuseppe 
of  Battersea,  in  whose  house  Alvina  had  stayed. 

This  much  Alvina  knew.  She  knew  that  a  portion  of  the 
land  down  at  Pescocalascio  belonged  to  Ciccio :  a  bit  of  half- 
savage,  ancient  earth  that  had  been  left  to  his  mother  by 
old  Francesco  Califano,  her  hard-grinding  peasant  father. 
This  land  remained  integral  in  the  property,  and  was  worked 
by  Ciccio's  two  uncles,  Pancrazio  and  Giovanni.  Pancrazio 
was  the  well-to-do  uncle,  who  had  been  a  model  and  had  built 
a  "  villa."  Giovanni  was  not  much  good.  That  was  how 
Ciccio  put  it. 

They  expected  Pancrazio  to  meet  them  at  the  station. 
Ciccio  collected  his  bundles  and  put  his  hat  straight  and 
peered  out  of  the  window  into  the  steep  mountains  of  the 
afternoon.  There  was  a  town  in  the  opening  between  steep 
hills,  a  town  on  a  flat  plain  that  ran  into  the  mountains  like  a 
gulf.  The  train  drew  up.  They  had  arrived. 

Alvina  was  so  tired  she  could  hardly  climb  down  to  the 
platform.  It  was  about  four  o'clock.  Ciccio  looked  up  and 
down  for  Pancrazio,  but  could  not  see  him.  So  he  put  his 


THE  JOURNEY  ACROSS  337 

luggage  into  a  pile  on  the  platform,  told  Alvina  to  stand  by 
it,  whilst  he  went  off  for  the  registered  boxes.  A  porter 
came  and  asked  her  questions,  of  which  she  understood  noth- 
ing. Then  at  last  came  Ciccio,  shouldering  one  small  trunk, 
whilst  a  porter  followed,  shouldering  another.  Out  they 
trotted,  leaving  Alvina  abandoned  with  the  pile  of  hand 
luggage.  She  waited.  The  train  drew  out.  Ciccio  and  the 
porter  came  bustling  back.  They  took  her  out  through  the 
little  gate,  to  where,  in  the  flat  desert  space  behind  the  rail- 
way, stood  two  great  drab  motor-omnibuses,  and  a  rank  of 
open  carriages.  Ciccio  was  handing  up  the  handbags  to  the 
roof  of  one  of  the  big  post-omnibuses.  When  it  was  finished 
the  man  on  the  roof  came  down,  and  Ciccio  gave  him  and  the 
station  porter  each  sixpence.  The  station-porter  immediately 
threw  his  coin  on  the  ground  with  a  gesture  of  indignant  con- 
tempt, spread  his  arms  wide  and  expostulated  violently. 
Ciccio  expostulated  back  again,  and  they  pecked  at  each  other, 
verbally,  like  two  birds.  It  ended  by  the  rolling  up  of  the 
burly,  black  moustached  driver  of  the  omnibus.  Whereupon 
Ciccio  quite  amicably  gave  the  porter  two  nickel  twopences  in 
addition  to  the  sixpence,  whereupon  the  porter  quite  lovingly 
wished  him  "  buon'  viaggio." 

So  Alvina  was  stowed  into  the  body  of  the  omnibus,  with 
Ciccio  at  her  side.  They  were  no  sooner  seated  than  a  voice 
was  heard,  in  beautifully-modulated  English: 

"  You  are  here!     Why  how  have  I  missed  you?  " 

It  was  Pancrazio,  a  smallish,  rather  battered-looking,  shabby 
Italian  of  sixty  or  more,  with  a  big  moustache  and  reddish- 
rimmed  eyes  and  a  deeply-lined  face.  He  was  presented  to 
Alvina. 

"  How  have  I  missed  you?  "  he  said.  "  I  was  on  the  station 
when  the  train  came,  and  I  did  not  see  you." 

But  it  was  evident  he  had  taken  wine.  He  had  no  further 
opportunity  to  talk.  The  compartment  was  full  of  large, 
mountain -peasants  with  black  hats  and  big  cloaks  and  over- 
coats. They  found  Pancrazio  a  seat  at  the  far  end,  and  there 
he  sat,  with  his  deeply-lined,  impassive  face  and  slightly 
glazed  eyes.  He  had  yellow-brown  eyes  like  Ciccio.  But  in 
the  uncle  the  eyelids  dropped  in  a  curious,  heavy  way,  the 
eyes  looked  dull  like  those  of  some  old,  rakish  tom-cat,  they 
were  slightly  rimmed  with  red.  A  curious  person!  And  his 
English,  though  slow,  was  beautifully  pronounced.  He 


338  THE  LOST  GIRL 

glanced  at  Alvina  with  slow,  impersonal  glances,  not  at  all  a 
stare.  And  he  sat  for  the  most  part  impassive  and  abstract 
as  a  Red  Indian. 

At  the  last  moment  a  large  hlack  priest  was  crammed  in, 
and  the  door  shut  behind  him.  Every  available  seat  was 
let  down  and  occupied.  The  second  great  post-omnibus  rolled 
away,  and  then  the  one  for  Mola  followed,  rolling  Alvina  and 
Ciccio  over  the  next  stage  of  their  journey. 

The  sun  was  already  slanting  to  the  mountain  tops,  shadows 
were  falling  on  the  gulf  of  the  plain.  The  omnibus  charged 
at  a  great  speed  along  a  straight  white  road,  which  cut 
through  the  cultivated  level  straight  towards  the  core  of  the 
mountain.  By  the  road-side,  peasant  men  in  cloaks,  peasant 
women  in  full-gathered  dresses  with  white  bodices  or  blouses 
having  great  full  sleeves,  tramped  in  the  ridge  of  grass,  driv- 
ing cows  or  goats,  or  leading  heavily-laden  asses.  The  women 
had  coloured  kerchiefs  on  their  heads,  like  the  women  Alvina 
remembered  at  the  Sunday-School  treats,  who  used  to  tell 
fortunes  with  green  little  love-birds.  And  they  all  tramped 
along  towards  the  blue  shadow  of  the  closing-in  mountains, 
leaving  the  peaks  of  the  town  behind  on  the  left. 

At  a  branch-road  the  'bus  suddenly  stopped,  and  there  it 
sat  calmly  in  the  road  beside  an  icy  brook,  in  the  falling  twi- 
light. Great  moth-white  oxen  waved  past,  drawing  a  long, 
low  load  of  wood;  the  peasants  left  behind  began  to  come  up 
again,  in  picturesque  groups.  The  icy  brook  tinkled,  goats, 
pigs  and  cows  wandered  and  shook  their  bells  along  the 
grassy  borders  of  the  road  and  the  flat,  unbroken  fields,  being 
driven  slowly  home.  Peasants  jumped  out  of  the  omnibus  on 
to  the!  road,  to  chat  —  and  a  sharp  air  came  in.  High  over- 
head, as  the  sun  went  down,  was  the  curious  icy  radiance  of 
snow  mountains,  and  a  pinkness,  while  shadow  deepened  in 
the  valley. 

At  last,  after  about  half  an  hour,  the  youth  who  was  conduc- 
tor of  the  omnibus  came  running  down  the  wild  side-road, 
everybody  clambered  in,  and  away  the  vehicle  charged,  into  the 
neck  of  the  plain.  With  a  growl  and  a  rush  it  swooped  up 
the  first  loop  of  the  ascent.  Great  precipices  rose  on  the 
right,  the  ruddiness*  of  sunset  above  them.  The  road  wound 
and  swirled,  trying  to  get  up  the  pass.  The  omnibus  pegged 
slowly  up,  then  charged  round  a  corner,  swirled  into  another 
loop,  and  pegged  heavily  once  more.  It  seemed  dark  between 


THE  JOURNEY  ACROSS  339 

the  closing-in  mountains.  The  rocks  rose  very  high,  the  road 
looped  and  swerved  from  one  side  of  the  wide  defile  to  the 
other,  the  vehicle  pulsed  and  persisted.  Sometimes  there  was 
a  house,  sometimes  a  wood  of  oak-trees,  sometimes  the  glimpse 
of  a  ravine,  then  the  tall  white  glisten  of  snow  above  the 
earthly  blackness.  And  still  they  went  on  and  on,  up  the 
darkness. 

Peering  ahead,  Alvina  thought  she  saw  the  hollow  between 
the  peaks,  which  was  the  top  of  the  pass.  And  every  time 
the  omnibus  took  a  new  turn,  she  thought  it  was  coming  out 
on  the  top  of  this  hollow  between  the  heights.  But  no  — 
the  road  coiled  right  away  again. 

A  wild  little  village  came  in  sight.  This  was  the  destina- 
tion. Again  no.  Only  the  tall,  handsome  mountain  youth 
who  had  sat  across  from  her,  descended  grumbling  because 
the  'bus  had  brought  him  past  his  road,  the  driver  having 
refused  to  pull  up.  Everybody  expostulated  with  him,  and 
he  dropped  into  the  shadow.  The  big  priest  squeezed  into  his 
place.  The  'bus  wound  on  and  on,  and  always  towards  that 
hollow  sky-line  between  the  high  peaks. 

At  last  they  ran  up  between  buildings  nipped  between 
high  rock-faces,  and  out  into  a  little  market-place,  the  crown 
of  the  pass.  The  luggage  was  got  out  and  lifted  down. 
Alvina  descended.  There  she  was,  in  a  wild  centre  of  an 
old,  unfinished  little  mountain  town.  The  fagade  of  a 
church  rose  from  a  small  eminence.  A  white  road  ran  to  the 
right,  where  a  great  open  valley  showed  faintly  beyond  and 
beneath.  Low,  squalid  sort  of  buildings  stood  around  — 
with  some  high  buildings.  And  there  were  bare  little  trees. 
The  stars  were  in  the  sky,  the  air  was  icy.  People  stood 
darkly,  excitedly  about,  women  with  an  odd,  shell-pattern 
head-dress  of  gofered  linen,  something  like  a  parlour-maid's 
cap,  came  and  stared  hard.  They  were  hard-faced  mountain 
women. 

Pancrazio  was  talking  to  Ciccio  in  dialect. 

"  I  couldn't  get  a  cart  to  come  down,"  he  said  in  English. 
"But  I  shall  find  one  here.  Now  what  will  you  do?  Put 
the  luggage  in  Grazia's  place  while  you  wait?  — " 

They  went  across  the  open  place  to  a  sort  of  shop  called 
the  Post  Restaurant.  It  was  a  little  hole  with  an  earthen  floor 
and  a  smell  of  cats.  Three  crones  were  sitting  over  a  low 
brass  brazier,  in  which  charcoal  and  ashes  smouldered.  Men 


340  THE  LOST  GIRL 

were  drinking.  Ciccio  ordered  coffee  with  rum  —  and  the 
hard-faced  Grazia,  in  her  unfresh  head-dress,  dabbled  the  little 
dirty  coffee-cups  in  dirty  water,  took  the  coffee-pot  out  of 
the  ashes,  poured  in  the  old  black  boiling  coffee  three  parts 
full,  and  slopped  the  cup  over  with  rum.  Then  she  dashed 
in  a  spoonful  of  sugar,  to  add  to  the  pool  in  the  saucer,  and 
her  customers  were  served. 

However,  Ciccio  drank  up,  so  Alvina  did  likewise,  burning 
her  lips  smartly.  Ciccio  paid  and  ducked  his  way  out. 

"  Now  what  will  you  buy?  "  asked  Pancrazio. 

"Buy?  "said  Ciccio. 

"Food,"  said  Pancrazio.     "Have  you  brought  food?" 

"  No,"  said  Ciccio. 

So  they  trailed  up  stony  dark  ways  to  a  butcher,  and  got 
a  big  red  slice  of  meat;  to  a  baker,  and  got  enormous  flat 
loaves.  Sugar  and  coffee  they  bought.  And  Pancrazio 
lamented  in  his  elegant  English  that  no  butter  was  to  be 
obtained.  Everywhere  the  hard-faced  women  came  and  stared 
into  Alvina's  face,  asking  questions.  And  both  Ciccio  and 
Pancrazio  answered  rather  coldly,  with  some  hauteur.  There 
was  evidently  not  too  much  intimacy  between  the  people  of 
Pescocalascio  and  these  semi-townfolk  of  Ossona.  Alvina  felt 
as  if  she  were  in  a  strange,  hostile  country,  in  the  darkness  of 
the  savage  little  mountain  town. 

At  last  they  were  ready.  They  mounted  into  a  two- wheeled 
cart,  Alvina  and  Ciccio  behind,  Pancrazio  and  the  driver  in 
front,  the  luggage  promiscuous.  The  bigger  things  were  left 
for  the  morrow.  It  was  icy  cold,  with  a  flashing  darkness. 
The  moon  would  not  rise  till  later. 

And  so,  without  any  light  but  that  of  the  stars,  the  cart 
went  spanking  and  rattling  downhill,  down  the  pale  road 
which  wound  down  the  head  of  the  valley  to  the  gulf  of 
darkness  below.  Down  in  the  darkness  into  the  darkness 
they  rattled,  wildly,  and  without  heed,  the  young  driver 
making  strange  noises  to  his  dim  horse,  cracking  a  whip  and 
asking  endless  questions  of  Pancrazio. 

Alvina  sat  close  to  Ciccio.  He  remained  almost  impassive. 
The  wind  was  cold,  the  stars  flashed.  And  they  rattled  down 
the  rough,  broad  road  under  the  rocks,  down  and  down  in  the 
darkness.  Ciccio  sat  crouching  forwards,  staring  ahead. 
Alvina  was  aware  of  mountains,  rocks,  and  stars. 

"  I  didn't  know  it  was  so  wild!  "  she  said. 


THE  JOURNEY  ACROSS  341 

"  It  is  not  much,"  he  said.  There  was  a  sad,  plangent  note 
in  his  voice.  He  put  his  hand  upon  her. 

"You  don't  like  it?  "  he  said. 

"  I  think  it's  lovely  —  wonderful,"  she  said,  dazed. 

He  held  her  passionately.  But  she  did  not  feel  she  needed 
protecting.  It  was  all  wonderful  and  amazing  to  her.  She 
could  not  understand  why  he  seemed  upset  and  in  a  sort  of 
despair.  To  her  there  was  magnificence  in  the  lustrous  stars 
and  the  steepnesses,  magic,  rather  terrible  and  grand. 

They  came  down  to  the  level  valley  bed,  and  went  rolling 
along.  There  was  a  house,  and  a  lurid  red  fire  burning  out- 
side against  the  wall,  and  dark  figures  about  it. 

"  What  is  that?  "  she  said.     "  What  are  they  doing?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Ciccio.     "  Cosa  fanno  li  —  eh?  " 

"  Ka  —  ?     Fanno  il  buga'— "  said  the  driver. 

"They  are  doing  some  washing,"  said  Pancrazio,  explan- 
atory. 

"Washing!"  said  Alvina. 

"  Boiling  the  clothes,"  said  Ciccio. 

On  the  cart  rattled  and  bumped,  in  the  cold  night,  down 
the  high-way  in  the  valley.  Alvina  could  make  out  the  dark- 
ness of  the  slopes.  Overhead  she  saw  the  brilliance  of  Orion. 
She  felt  she  was  quite,  quite  lost.  She  had  gone  out  of  the 
world,  over  the  border,  into  some  place  of  mystery.  She  was 
lost  to  Woodhouse,  to  Lancaster,  to  England  —  all  lost. 

They  passed  through  a  darkness  of  woods,  with  a  swift  sound 
of  cold  water.  And  then  suddenly  the  cart  pulled  up. 
Some  one  came  out  of  a  lighted  doorway  in  the  darkness. 

"  We  must  get  down  here  —  the  cart  doesn't  go  any  further," 
said  Pancrazio. 

"  Are  we  there?  "  said  Alvina. 

"  No,  it  is  about  a  mile.     But  we  must  leave  the  cart." 

Ciccio  asked  questions  in  Italian.     Alvina  climbed  down. 

"Good-evening!  Are  you  cold?"  came  a  loud,  raucous, 
American-Italian  female  voice.  It  was  another  relation  of 
Ciccio 's.  Alvina  stared  and  looked  at  the  handsome,  sinister, 
raucous-voiced  young  woman  who  stood  in  the  light  of  the 
doorway. 

"  Rather  cold,"  she  said. 

"  Come  in,  and  warm  yourself,"  said  the  young  woman. 

"My  sister's  husband  lives  here,"  explained  Pancrazio. 

Alvina  went  through  the  doorway  into  the  room.     It  was 


342  THE  LOST  GIRL 

a  sort  of  inn.  x  On  the  earthen  floor  glowed  a  great  round  pan 
of  charcoal,  which  looked  like  a  flat  pool  of  fire.  Men  in 
hats  and  cloaks  sat  at  a  table  playing  cards  by  the  light  of  a 
small  lamp,  a  man  was  pouring  wine.  The  room  seemed  like  a 
cave. 

"  Warm  yourself,"  said  the  young  woman,  pointing  to  the 
flat  disc  of  fire  on  the  floor.  She  put  a  chair  up  to  it,  and 
Alvina  sat  down.  The  men  in  the  room  stared,  but  went  on 
noisily  with  their  cards.  Ciccio  came  in  with  luggage.  Men 
got  up  and  greeted  him  effusively,  watching  Alvina  between 
whiles  as  if  she  were  some  alien  creature.  Words  of  American 
sounded  among  the  Italian  dialect. 

There  seemed  to  be  a  confab  of  some  sort,  aside.  Ciccio 
came  and  said  to  her: 

"  They  want  to  know  if  we  will  stay  the  night  here." 

"  I  would  rather  go  on  home,"  she  said. 

He  averted  his  face  at  the  word  home. 

"  You  see,"  said  Pancrazio,  "  I  think  you  might  be  more 
comfortable  here,  than  in  my  poor  house.  You  see  I  have  no 
woman  to  care  for  it  — " 

Alvina  glanced  round  the  cave  of  a  room,  at  the  rough 
fellows  in  their  black  hats.  She  was  thinking  how  she  would 
be  "  more  comfortable  "  here. 

"  I  would  rather  go  on,"  she  said. 

"  Then  we  will  get  the  donkey,"  said  Pancrazio  stoically. 
And  Alvina  followed  him  out  on  to  the  high-road. 

From  a  shed  issued  a  smallish,  brigand-looking  fellow 
carrying  a  lantern.  He  had  his  cloak  over  his  nose  and  his 
hat  over  his  eyes.  His  legs  were  bundled  with  white  rag, 
crossed  and  crossed  with  hide  straps,  and  he  was  shod  in 
silent  skin  sandals. 

"  This  is  my  brother  Giovanni,"  said  Pancrazio.  "  He  is 
not  quite  sensible."  Then  he  broke  into  a  loud  flood  of 
dialect. 

Giovanni  touched  his  hat  to  Alvina,  and  gave  the  lantern  to 
Pancrazio.  Then  he  disappeared,  returning  in  a  few  moments 
with  the  ass.  Ciccio  came  out  with  the  baggage,  and  by  the 
light  of  the  lantern  the  things  were  slung  on  either  side  of 
the  ass,  in  a  rather  precarious  heap.  Pancrazio  tested  the 
rope  again. 

"There!     Go  on,  and  I  shall  come  in  a  minute." 

"  Ay-er-er !  "  cried  Giovanni  at  the  ass,  striking  the  flank 


THE  JOURNEY  ACROSS  343 

of  the  beast.  Then  he  took  the  leading  rope  and  led  up  on 
the  dark  highway,  stalking  with  his  dingy  white  legs  under  his 
muffled  cloak,  leading  the  ass.  Alvina  noticed  the  shuffle  of 
his  skin-sandalled  feet,  the  quiet  step  of  the  ass. 

She  walked  with  Ciccio  near  the  side  of  the  road.  He 
carried  the  lantern.  The  ass  with  its  load  plodded  a  few 
steps  ahead.  There  were  trees  on  the  road-side,  and  a  small 
channel  of  invisible  but  noisy  water.  Big  rocks  jutted  some- 
times. It  was  freezing,  the  mountain  high-road  was  congealed. 
High  stars  flashed  overhead. 

"  How  strange  it  is !  "  said  Alvina  to  Ciccio.  "  Are  you 
glad  you  have  come  home?  " 

"  It  isn't  my  home,"  he  replied,  as  if  the  word  fretted  him. 
"  Yes,  I  like  to  see  it  again.  But  it  isn't  the  place  for  young 
people  to  live  in.  You  will  see  how  you  like  it." 

She  wondered  at  his  uneasiness.  It  was  the  same  in  Pan- 
crazio.  The  latter  now  came  running  to  catch  them  up. 

"  I  think  you  will  be  tired,"  he  said.  "  You  ought  to  have 
stayed  at  my  relation's  house  down  there." 

"  No,  I  am  not  tired,"  said  Alvina.     "  But  I'm  hungry." 

"  Well,  we  shall  eat  something  when  we  come  to  my  house." 

They  plodded  in  the  darkness  of  the  valley  high-road.  Pan- 
crazio  took  the  lantern  and  went  to  examine  the  load,  hitching 
the  ropes.  A  great  flat  loaf  fell  out,  and  rolled  away,  and 
smack  came  a  little  valise.  Pancrazio  broke  into  a  flood  of 
dialect  to  Giovanni,  handing  him  the  lantern.  Ciccio  picked 
up  the  bread  and  put  it  under  his  arm. 

"  Break  me  a  little  piece,"  said  Alvina. 

And  in  the  darkness  they  both  chewed  bread. 

After  a  while,  Pancrazio  halted  with  the  ass  just  ahead, 
and  took  the  lantern  from  Giovanni. 

"  We  must  leave  the  road  here,"  he  said. 

And  with  the  lantern  he  carefully,  courteously  showed 
Alvina  a  small  track  descending  in  the  side  of  the  bank,  be- 
tween bushes.  Alvina  ventured  down  the  steep  descent, 
Pancrazio  following  showing  a  light.  In  the  rear  was  Gio- 
vanni, making  noises  at  the  ass.  They  all  picked  their  way 
down  into  the  great  white-bouldered  bed  of  a  mountain  river. 
It  was  a  wide,  strange  bed  of  dry  boulders,  pallid  under  the 
stars.  There  was  a  sound  of  a  rushing  river,  glacial-sounding. 
The  place  seemed  wild  and  desolate.  In  the  distance  was  a 
darkness  of  bushes,  along  the  far  shore. 


344  THE  LOST  GIRL 

Pancrazio  swinging  the  lantern,  they  threaded  their  way 
through  the  uneven  boulders  till  they  came  to  the  river  itself 
—  not  very  wide,  but  rushing  fast.  A  long,  slender,  drooping 
plank  crossed  over.  Alvina  crossed  rather  tremulous,  fol- 
lowed by  Pancrazio  with  the  light,  and  Ciccio  with  the  bread 
and  the  valise.  They  could  hear  the  click  of  the  ass  and 
the  ejaculations  of  Giovanni. 

Pancrazio  went  back  over  the  stream  with  the  light.  Alvina 
saw  the  dim  ass  come  up,  wander  uneasily  to  the  stream,  plant 
his  fore  legs,  and  sniff  the  water,  his  nose  right  down. 

"Er!  Err!  "  cried  Pancrazio,  striking  the  beast  on  the 
flank. 

But  it  only  lifted  its  nose  and  turned  aside.  It  would  not 
take  the  stream.  Pancrazio  seized  the  leading  rope  angrily  and 
turned  upstream. 

"  Why  were  donkeys  made !  They  are  beasts  without  sense," 
his  voice  floated  angrily  across  the  chill  darkness. 

Ciccio  laughed.  He  and  Alvina  stood  in  the  wide,  stony 
river-bed,  in  the  strong  starlight,  watching  the  dim  figures  of 
the  ass  and  the  men  crawl  upstream  with  the  lantern. 

Again  the  same  performance,  the  white  muzzle  of  the  ass 
stooping  down  to  sniff  the  water  suspiciously,  his  hind-quarters 
tilted  up  with  the  load.  Again  the  angry  yells  and  blows  from 
Pancrazio.  And  the  ass  seemed  to  be  taking  the  water.  But 
no!  After  a  long  deliberation  he  drew  back.  Angry  lan- 
guage sounded  through  the  crystal  air.  The  group  with  the 
lantern  moved  again  upstream,  becoming  smaller. 

Alvina  and  Ciccio  stood  and  watched.  The  lantern  looked 
small  up  the  distance.  But  there  —  a  clocking,  shouting, 
splashing  sound. 

"  He  is  going  over,"  said  Ciccio. 

Pancrazio  came  hurrying  back  to  the  plank  with  the  lantern. 

"Oh  the  stupid  beast!     I  could  kill  him!  "  cried  he. 

"Isn't  he  used  to  the  water?  "  said  Alvina. 

"Yes,  he  is.  But  he  won't  go  except  where  he  thinks  he 
will  go.  You  might  kill  him  before  he  should  go." 

They  picked  their  way  across  the  river  bed,  to  the  wild 
scrub  and  bushes  of  the  farther  side.  There  they  waited  for 
the  ass,  which  came  up  clicking  over  the  boulders,  led  by  the 
patient  Giovanni.  And  then  they  took  a  difficult,  rocky  track 
ascending  between  banks.  Alvina  felt  the  uneven  scramble  a 
great  effort.  But  she  got  up.  Again  they  waited  for  the  ass. 


THE  JOURNEY  ACROSS  345 

And  then  again  they  struck  off  to  the  right,  under  some  trees. 

A  house  appeared  dimly. 

"Is  that  it?"  said  Alvina. 

"  No.  It  belongs  to  me.  But  that  is  not  my  house.  A 
few  steps  further.  Now  we  are  on  my  land." 

They  were  treading  a  rough  sort  of  grass-land  —  and  still 
climbing.  It  ended  in  a  sudden  little  scramble  between  big 
stones,  and  suddenly  they  were  on  the  threshold  of  a  quite 
important-looking  house:  but  it  was  all  dark. 

"  Oh !  "  exclaimed  Pancrazio,  "  they  have  done  nothing  that 
I  told  them."  He  made  queer  noises  of  exasperation. 

"  What?  "  said  Alvina. 

"  Neither  made  a  fire  nor  anything.     Wait  a  minute  — " 

The  ass  came  up.  Ciccio,  Alvina,  Giovanni  and  the  ass 
waited  in  the  frosty  starlight  under  the  wild  house.  Pan- 
crazio disappeared  round  the  back.  Ciccio  talked  to  Gio- 
vanni. He  seemed  uneasy,  as  if  he  felt  depressed. 

Pancrazio  returned  with  the  lantern,  and  opened  the  big 
door.  Alvina  followed  him  into  a  stone-floored,  wide  pas- 
sage, where  stood  farm  implements,  where  a  little  of  straw 
and  beans  lay  in  a  corner,  and  whence  rose  bare  wooden  stairs. 
So  much  she  saw  in  the  glimpse  of  lantern-light,  as  Pancrazio 
pulled  the  string  and  entered  the  kitchen:  a  dim-walled  room 
with  a  vaulted  roof  and  a  great  dark,  open  hearth,  fireless: 
a  bare  room,  with  a  little  rough  dark  furniture:  an  unswept 
stone  floor:  iron-barred  windows,  rather  small,  in  the  deep- 
thickness  of  the  wall,  one-half  shut  with  a  drab  shutter.  It 
was  rather  like  a  room  on  the  stage,  gloomy,  not  meant  to  be 
lived  in. 

"  I  will  make  a  light,"  said  Pancrazio,  taking  a  lamp  from 
the  mantel-piece,  and  proceeding  to  wind  it  up. 

Ciccio  stood  behind  Alvina,  silent.  He  had  put  down  the 
bread  and  valise  on  a  wooden  chest.  She  turned  to  him. 

"  It's  a  beautiful  room,"  she  said. 

Which,  with  its  high,  vaulted  roof,  its  dirty  whitewash,  its 
great  black  chimney,  it  really  was.  But  Ciccio  did  not  under- 
stand. He  smiled  gloomily. 

The  lamp  was  lighted.     Alvina  looked  round  in  wonder. 

"  Now  I  will  make  a  fire.  You,  Ciccio,  will  help  Giovanni 
with  the  donkey,"  said  Pancrazio,  scuttling  with  the  lantern. 

Alvina  looked  at  the  room.  There  was  a  wooden  settle  in 
front  of  the  hearth,  stretching  its  back  to  the  room.  There 


346  THE  LOST  GIRL 

was  a  little  table  under  a  square,  recessed  window,  on  whose 
sloping  ledge  were  newspapers,  scattered  letters,  nails  and  a 
hammer.  On  the  table  were  dried  beans  and  two  maize  cobs. 
In  a  corner  were  shelves,  with  two  chipped  enamel  plates,  and 
a  small  table  underneath,  on  which  stood  a  bucket  of  water 
with  a  dipper.  Then  there  was  a  wooden  chest,  two  little 
chairs,  and  a  litter  of  faggots,  cane,  vine-twigs,  bare  maize- 
hubs,  oak-twigs  filling  the  corner  by  the  hearth. 

Pancrazio  came  scrambling  in  with  fresh  faggots. 

"They  have  not  done  what  I  told  them,  the  tiresome  peo- 
ple !  "  he  said.  "  I  told  them  to  make  a  fire  and  prepare  the 
house.  You  will  be  uncomfortable  in  my  poor  home.  I  have 
no  woman,  nothing,  everything  is  wrong — " 

He  broke  the  pieces  of  cane  and  kindled  them  in  the  hearth. 
Soon  there  was  a  good  blaze.  Ciccio  came  in  with  the  bags 
and  the  food. 

"  I  had  better  go  upstairs  and  take  my  things  off,"  said 
Alvina.  "  I  am  so  hungry." 

"  You  had  better  keep  your  coat  on,"  said  Pancrazio.  "  The 
room  is  cold."  Which  it  was,  ice-cold.  She  shuddered  a 
little.  She  took  off  her  hat  and  fur. 

"  Shall  we  fry  some  meat?  "  said  Pancrazio. 

He  took  a  frying-pan,  found  lard  in  the  wooden  chest  —  it 
was  the  food-chest  —  and  proceeded  to  fry  pieces  of  meat  in 
a  frying-pan  over  the  fire.  Alvina  wanted  to  lay  the  table. 
But  there  was  no  cloth. 

"We  will  sit  here,  as  I  do,  to  eat,"  said  Pancrazio.  He 
produced  two  enamel  plates  and  one  soup-plate,  three  penny 
iron  forks  and  two  old  knives,  and  a  little  grey,  coarse  salt  in 
a  wooden  bowl.  These  he  placed  on  the  seat  of  the  settle  in 
front  of  the  fire.  Ciccio  was  silent. 

The  settle  was  dark  and  greasy.  Alvina  feared  for  her 
clothes.  But  she  sat  with  her  enamel  plate  and  her  impos- 
sible fork,  a  piece  of  meat  and  a  chunk  of  bread,  and  ate.  It 
was  difficult  —  but  the  food  was  good,  and  the  fire  blazed. 
Only  there  was  a  film  of  wood-smoke  in  the  room,  rather  smart- 
ing. Ciccio  sat  on  the  settle  beside  her,  and  ate  in  large 
mouthfuls. 

"  I  think  it's  fun,"  said  Alvina. 

He  looked  at  her  with  dark,  haunted,  gloomy  eyes.  She 
wondered  what  was  the  matter  with  him. 

"  Don't  you  think  it's  fun?  "  she  said,  smiling. 


THE  JOURNEY  ACROSS  347 

He  smiled  slowly. 

"  You  won't  like  it,"  he  said. 

"  Why  not?  "  she  cried,  in  panic  lest  he  prophesied  truly. 

Pancrazio  scuttled  in  and  out  with  the  lantern.  He  brought 
wrinkled  pears,  and  green,  round  grapes,  and  walnuts,  on  a 
white  cloth,  and  presented  them. 

"I  think  my  pears  are  still  good,"  he  said.  "You  must 
eat  them,  and  excuse  my  uncomfortable  house." 

Giovanni  came  in  with  a  big  bowl  of  soup  and  a  bottle  of 
milk.  There  was  room  only  for  three  on  the  settle  before 
the  hearth.  He  pushed  his  chair  among  the  litter  of  fire- 
kindling,  and  sat  down.  He  had  bright,  bluish  eyes,  and  a 
fattish  face  —  was  a  man  of  about  fifty,  but  had  a  simple, 
kindly,  slightly  imbecile  face.  All  the  men  kept  their  hats  on. 

The  soup  was  from  Giovanni's  cottage.  It  was  for  Pan- 
crazio and  him.  But  there  was  only  one  spoon.  So  Pancrazio 
ate  a  dozen  spoonfuls,  and  handed  the  bowl  to  Giovanni  — 
who  protested  and  tried  to  refuse  —  but  accepted,  and  ate  ten 
spoonfuls,  then  handed  the  bowl  back  to  his  brother,  with 
the  spoon.  So  they  finished  the  bowl  between  them.  Then 
Pancrazio  found  wine  —  a  whitish  wine,  not  very  good,  for 
which  he  apologized.  And  he  invited  Alvina  to  coffee. 
Which  she  accepted  gladly. 

For  though  the  fire  was  warm  in  front,  behind  was  very 
cold.  Pancrazio  stuck  a  long  pointed  stick  down  the  handle 
of  a  saucepan,  and  gave  this  utensil  to  Ciccio,  to  hold  over  the 
fire  and  scald  the  milk,  whilst  he  put  the  tin  coffee-pot  in  the 
ashes.  He  took  a  long  iron  tube  or  blow-pipe,  which  rested 
on  two  little  feet  at  the  far  end.  This  he  gave  to  Giovanni  to 
blow  the  fire. 

Giovanni  was  a  fire-worshipper.  His  eyes  sparkled  as  he 
took  the  blowing  tube.  He  put  fresh  faggots  behind  the  ftre 
—  though  Pancrazio  forbade  him.  He  arranged  the  burnirg 
faggots.  And  then  softly  he  blew  a  red-hot  fire  for  the  coffee. 

"Basta!  Basta!  "  said  Ciccio.  But  Giovanni  blew  on,  hs 
eyes  sparkling,  looking  to  Alvina.  He  was  making  the  fife 
beautiful  for  her. 

There  was  one  cup,  one  enamelled  mug,  one  little  bowl. 
This  was  the  coffee-service.  Pancrazio  noisily  ground  tie 
coffee.  He  seemed  to  do  everything,  old,  stooping  as  he  wes. 

At  last  Giovanni  took  his  leave  —  the  kettle  which  hung  <m 
the  hook  over  the  fire  was  boiling  over.  Ciccio  burnt  his  haid 


348  THE  LOST  GIRL 

lifting  it  off.    And  at  last,  at  last  Alvina  could  go  to  bed. 

Pancrazio  went  first  with  the  candle  —  then  Ciccio  with 
the  black  kettle  —  then  Alvina.  The  men  still  had  their  hats 
on.  Their  boots  tramped  noisily  on  the  bare  stairs. 

The  bedroom  was  very  cold.  It  was  a  fair-sized  room  with 
a  concrete  floor  and  white  walls,  and  window-door  opening  on 
a  little  balcony.  There  were  two  high  white  beds  on  opposite 
sides  of  the  room.  The  wash-stand  was  a  little  tripod  thing. 

The  air  was  very  cold,  freezing,  the  stone  floor  was  dead 
cold  to  the  feet.  Ciccio  sat  down  on  a  chair  and  began  to 
take  off  his  boots.  She  went  to  the  window.  The  moon 
had  risen.  There  was  a  flood  of  light  on  dazzling  white 
snow  tops,  glimmering  and  marvellous  in  the  evanescent  night. 
She  went  out  for  a  moment  on  to  the  balcony.  It  was  a 
wonder-world:  the  moon  over  the  snow  heights,  the  pallid 
valley -bed  away  below;  the  river  hoarse,  and  round  about 
her,  scrubby,  blue-dark  foot-hills  with  twiggy  trees.  Magical 
it  all  was  —  but  so  cold. 

"You  had  better  shut  the  door,"  said  Ciccio. 

She  came  indoors.  She  was  dead  tired,  and  stunned  with 
cold,  and  hopelessly  dirty  after  that  journey.  Ciccio  had 
gone  to  bed  without  washing. 

"Why  does  the  bed  rustle?  "  she  asked  him. 

It  was  stuffed  with  dry  maize-leaves,  the  dry  sheathes  from 
the  cobs  —  stuffed  enormously  high.  He  rustled  like  a  snake 
among  dead  foliage. 

Alvina  washed  her  hands.  There  was  nothing  to  do  with 
the  water  but  throw  it  out  of  the  door.  Then  she  washed 
her  face,  thoroughly,  in  good  hot  water.  What  a  blessed 
relief!  She  sighed  as  she  dried  herself. 

"  It  does  one  good !  "  she  sighed. 

Ciccio  watched  her  as  she  quickly  brushed  her  hair.  She 
wis  almost  stupefied  with  weariness  and  the  cold,  bruising 
air.  Blindly  she  crept  into  the  high,  rustling  bed.  But  it 
was  made  high  in  the  middle.  And  it  was  icy  cold.  It 
slocked  her  almost  as  if  she  had  fallen  into  water.  She 
siuddered,  and  became  semi-conscious  with  fatigue.  The 
blankets  were  heavy,  heavy.  She  was  dazed  with  excitement 
and  wonder.  She  felt  vaguely  that  Ciccio  was  miserable, 
and  wondered  why. 

She  woke  with  a  start  an  hour  or  so  later.  The  moon  was 
in  the  room.  She  did  not  know  where  she  was.  And  she 


THE  JOURNEY  ACROSS  349 

was  frightened.  And  she  was  cold.  A  real  terror  took  hold 
of  her.  Ciccio  in  his  bed  was  quite  still.  Everything  seemed 
electric  with  horror.  She  felt  she  would  die  instantly,  every- 
thing was  so  terrible  around  her.  She  could  not  move.  She 
felt  that  everything  around  her  was  horrific,  extinguishing 
her,  putting  her  out.  Her  very  being  was  threatened.  In  an- 
other instant  she  would  be  transfixed. 

Making  a  violent  effort  she  sat  up.  The  silence  of  Ciccio 
in  his  bed  was  as  horrible  as  the  rest  of  the  night.  She 
had  a  horror  of  him  also.  What  would  she  do,  where  should 
she  flee?  She  was  lost  —  lost  —  lost  utterly. 

The  knowledge  sank  into  her  like  ice.  Then  deliberately 
she  got  out  of  bed  and  went  across  to  him.  He  was  horrible 
and  frightening,  but  he  was  warm.  She  felt  his  power  and 
his  warmth  invade  her  and  extinguish  her.  The  mad  and 
desperate  passion  that  was  in  him  sent  her  completely  un- 
conscious again,  completely  unconscious. 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE   PLACE   CALLED   CALIFANO 

THERE  is  no  mistake  about  it,  Alvina  was  a  lost  girl.  She 
was  cut  off  from  everything  she  belonged  to.  Ovid  isolated 
in  Thrace  might  well  lament.  The  soul  itself  needs  its  own 
mysterious  nourishment.  This  nourishment  lacking,  nothing 
is  well. 

At  Pescocalascio  it  was  the  mysterious  influence  of  the 
mountains  and  valleys  themselves  which  seemed  always  to 
be  annihilating  the  Englishwoman:  nay,  not  only  her,  but 
the  very  natives  themselves.  Ciccio  and  Pancrazio  clung  to 
her,  essentially,  as  if  she  saved  them  also  from  extinction. 
It  needed  all  her  courage.  Truly,  she  had  to  support  the 
souls  of  the  two  men. 

At  first  she  did  not  realize.  She  was  only  stunned  with 
the  strangeness  of  it  all:  startled,  half-enraptured  with  the 
terrific  beauty  of  the  place,  half-horrified  by  its  savage  anni- 
hilation of  her.  But  she  was  stunned.  The  days  went  by. 

It  seems  there  are  places  which  resist  us,  which  have  the 
power  to  overthrow  our  psychic  being.  It  seems. as  if  every 
country  has  its  potent  negative  centres,  localities  which 
savagely  and  triumphantly  refuse  our  living  culture.  And 
Alvina  had  struck  one  of  them,  here  on  the  edge  of  the 
Abruzzi. 

She  was  not  in  the  village  of  Pescocalascio  itself.  That 
was  a  long  hour's  walk  away.  Pancrazio's  house  was  the 
chief  of  a  tiny  hamlet  of  three  houses,  called  Califano  because 
the  Califanos  had  made  it.  There  was  the  ancient,  savage 
hole  of  a  house,  quite  windowless,  where  Pancrazio  and 
Ciccio's  mother  had  been  born:  the  family  home.  Then  there 
was  Pancrazio's  villa.  And  then,  a  little  below,  another 
newish,  modern  house  in  a  sort  of  wild  meadow,  inhabited  by 
the  peasants  who  worked  the  land.  Ten  minutes'  walk  away 
was  another  cluster  of  seven  or  eight  houses,  where  Giovanni 
lived.  But  there  was  no  shop,  no  post  nearer  than  Pescoca- 

350 


THE  PLACE  CALLED  CALIFANO  351 

lascio,  an  hour's  heavy  road  up  deep  and  rocky,  wearying 
tracks. 

And  yet,  what  could  be  more  lovely  than  the  sunny  days: 
pure,  hot,  blue  days  among  the  mountain  foothills:  irregular, 
steep  little  hills  half  wild  with  twiggy  brown  oak-trees  and 
marshes  and  broom  heaths,  half  cultivated,  in  a  wild,  scattered 
fashion.  Lovely,  in  the  lost  hollows  beyond  a  marsh,  to  see 
Ciccio  slowly  ploughing  with  two  great  white  oxen:  lovely  to 
go  with  Pancrazio  down  to  the  wild  scrub  that  bordered  the 
river-bed,  then  over  the  white-bouldered,  massive  desert  and 
across  stream  to  the  other  scrubby  savage  shore,  and  so  up  to 
the  high-road.  Pancrazio  was  very  happy  if  Alvina  would 
accompany  him.  He  liked  it  that  she  was  not  afraid.  And 
her  sense  of  the  beauty  of  the  place  was  an  infinite  relief  to 
him. 

Nothing  could  have  been  more  marvellous  than  the  winter 
twilight.  Sometimes  Alvina  and  Pancrazio  were  late  returning 
with  the  ass.  And  then  gingerly  the  ass  would  step  down 
the  steep  banks,  already  beginning  to  freeze  when  the  sun 
went  down.  And  again  and  again  he  would  balk  the  stream, 
while  a  violet-blue  dusk  descended  on  the  white,  wide  stream- 
bed,  and  the  scrub  and  lower  hills  became  dark,  and  in 
heaven,  oh,  almost  unbearably  lovely,  the  snow  of  the  near 
mountains  was  burning  rose,  against  the  dark-blue  heavens. 
How  unspeakably  lovely  it  was,  no  one  could  ever  tell,  the 
grand,  pagan  twilight  of  the  valleys,  savage,  cold,  with  a 
sense  of  ancient  gods  who  knew  the  right  for  human  sacrifice. 
It  stole  away  the  soul  of  Alvina.  She  felt  transfigured  in  it, 
clairvoyant  in  another  mystery  of  life.  A  savage  hardness 
came  in  her  heart.  The  gods  who  had  demanded  human 
sacrifice  were  quite  right,  immutably  right.  The  fierce,  sav- 
age gods  who  dipped  their  lips  in  blood,  these  were  the  true 
gods. 

The  terror,  the  agony,  the  nostalgia  of  the  heathen  past 
was  a  constant  torture  to  her  mediumistic  soul.  She  did 
not  know  what  it  was.  But  it  was  a  kind  of  neuralgia  in 
the  very  soul,  never  to  be  located  in  the  human  body,  and 
yet  physical.  Coming  over  the  brow  of  a  heathy,  rocky 
hillock,  and  seeing  Ciccio  beyond  leaning  deep  over  the 
plough,  in  his  white  shirt-sleeves  following  the  slow,  wav- 
ing, moth-pale  oxen  across  a  small  track  of  land  turned  up 
in  the  heathen  hollow,  her  soul  would  go  all  faint,  she 


352  THE  LOST  GIRL 

would  almost  swoon  with  realization  of  the  world  that  had 
gone  before.  And  Ciccio  was  so  silent,  there  seemed  so  much 
dumb  magic  and  anguish  in  him,  as  if  he  were  for  ever  afraid 
of  himself  and  the  thing  he  was.  He  seemed,  in  his  silence, 
to  concentrate  upon  her  so  terribly.  She  believed  she  would 
not  live. 

Sometimes  she  would  go  gathering  acorns,  large,  fine  acorns, 
a  precious  crop  in  that  land  where  the  fat  pig  was  almost  an 
object  of  veneration.  Silently  she  would  crouch  filling  the 
pannier.  And  far  off  she  would  hear  the  sound  of  Giovanni 
chopping  wood,  of  Ciccio  calling  to  the  oxen  or  Pancrazio 
making  noises  to  the  ass,  or  the  sound  of  a  peasant's  mattock. 
Over  all  the  constant  speech  of  the  passing  river,  and  the  real 
breathing  presence  of  the  upper  snows.  And  a  wild,  terrible 
happiness  would  take  hold  of  her,  beyond  despair,  but  very 
like  despair.  No  one  would  ever  find  her.  She  had  gone 
beyond  the  world  into  the  pre-world,  she  had  reopened  on 
the  old  eternity. 

And  then  Maria,   the  little  elvish  old  wife  of  Giovanni, 
would  come  up  with  the  cows.     One  cow  she  held  by  a  rope 
round  its  horns,  and  she  hauled  it  from  the  patches  of  young 
corn  into  the  rough  grass,  from  the  little  plantation  of  trees 
in    among   the   heath.     Maria    wore   the   full-pleated    white- 
sleeved  dress  of  the  peasants,  and  a  red  kerchief  on  her  head. 
But  her  dress  was  dirty,  and  her  face  was  dirty,  and  the  bi 
gold  rings  of  her  ears  hung  from  ears  which  perhaps  ha 
never  been  washed.     She  was  rather  smoke-dried  too,  from 
perpetual  wood-smoke. 

Maria  in  her  red  kerchief  hauling  the  white  cow,  and 
screaming  at  it,  would  come  laughing  towards  Alvina,  who 
was  rather  afraid  of  cows.  And  then,  screaming  high  in 
dialect,  Maria  would  talk  to  her.  Alvina  smiled  and  tried 
to  understand.  Impossible.  It  was  not  strictly  a  human 
speech.  It  was  rather  like  the  crying  of  half-articulate  ani- 
mals. It  certainly  was  not  Italian.  And  yet  Alvina  by  dint 
of  constant  hearing  began  to  pick  up  the  coagulated  phrases. 

She  liked  Maria.  She  liked  them  all.  They  were  all  very 
kind  to  her,  as  far  as  they  knew.  But  they  did  not  know. 
And  they  were  kind  with  each  other.  For  they  all  seemed 
lost,  like  lost,  forlorn  aborigines,  and  they  treated  Alvina 
as  if  she  were  a  higher  being.  They  loved  her  that  she  would 
strip  maize-cobs  or  pick  acorns.  But  they  were  all  anxious 


THE  PLACE  CALLED  CALIFANO  353 

to  serve  her.  And  it  seemed  as  if  they  needed  some  one  to 
serve.  It  seemed  as  if  Alvina,  the  Englishwoman,  had  a  cer- 
tain magic  glamour  for  them,  and  so  long  as  she  was  happy, 
it  was  a  supreme  joy  and  relief  to  them  to  have  her  there. 
But  it  seemed  to  her  she  would  not  live. 

And  when  she  was  unhappy!  Ah,  the  dreadful  days  of 
cold  rain  mingled  with  sleet,  when  the  world  outside  was 
more  than  impossible,  and  the  house  inside  was  a  horror. 
The  natives  kept  themselves  alive  by  going  about  constantly 
working,  dumb  and  elemental.  But  what  was  Alvina  to  do? 

For  the  house  was  unspeakable.  The  only  two  habitable 
rooms  were  the  kitchen  and  Alvina's  bedroom :  and  the  kitchen, 
with  its  little  grated  windows  high  up  in  the  wall,  one  of 
which  had  a  broken  pane  and  must  keep  one-half  of  its 
shutters  closed,  was  like  a  dark  cavern  vaulted  and  bitter 
with  wood-smoke.  Seated  on  the  settle  before  the  fire,  the 
hard,  greasy  settle,  Alvina  could  indeed  keep  the  fire  going, 
with  faggots  of  green  oak.  But  the  smoke  hurt  her  chest, 
she  was  not  clean  for  one  moment,  and  she  could  do  nothing 
else.  The  bedroom  again  was  just  impossibly  cold.  And 
there  was  no  other  place.  And  from  far  away  came  the  wild 
braying  of  an  ass,  primeval  and  desperate  in  the  snow. 

The  house  was  quite  large;  but  uninhabitable.  Down- 
stairs, on  the  left  of  the  wide  passage  where  the  ass  occa- 
sionally stood  out  of  the  weather,  and  where  the  chickens 
wandered  in  search  of  treasure,  was  a  big,  long  apartment 
where  Pancrazio  kept  implements  and  tools  and  potatoes  and 
pumpkins,  and  where  four  or  five  rabbits  hopped  unexpectedly 
out  of  the  shadows.  Opposite  this,  on  the  right,  was  the 
cantina,  a  dark  place  with  wine-barrels  and  more  agricultural 
stores.  This  was  the  whole  of  the  downstairs. 

Going  upstairs,  half  way  up,  at  the  turn  of  the  stairs  was 
the  opening  of  a  sort  of  barn,  a  great  wire-netting  behind 
which  showed  a  glow  of  orange  maize-cobs  and  some  wheat. 
Upstairs  were  four  rooms.  But  Alvina's  room  alone  was 
furnished.  Pancrazio  slept  in  the  unfurnished  bedroom  oppo- 
site, on  a  pile  of  old  clothes.  Beyond  was  a  room  with  litter 
in  it,  a  chest  of  drawers,  and  rubbish  of  old  books  and  photo- 
graphs Pancrazio  had  brought  from  England.  There  was  a 
battered  photograph  of  Lord  Leighton,  among  others.  The 
fourth  room,  approached  through  the  corn-chamber,  was  al- 
ways locked. 


354  THE  LOST  GIRL 

Outside  was  just  as  hopeless.  There  had  been  a  little 
garden  within  the  stone  enclosure.  But  fowls,  geese,  and  the 
ass  had  made  an  end  of  this.  Fowl-droppings  were  every- 
where, indoors  and  out,  the  ass  left  his  pile  of  droppings  to 
steam  in  the  winter  air  on  the  threshold,  while  his  heart- 
rending bray  rent  the  air.  Roads  there  were  none:  only  deep 
tracks,  like  profound  ruts  with  rocks  in  them,  in  the  hollows, 
and  rocky,  grooved  tracks  over  the  brows.  The  hollow  grooves 
were  full  of  mud  and  water,  and  one  struggled  slipperily  from 
rock  to  rock,  or  along  narrow  grass-ledges. 

What  was  to  be  done,  then,  on  mornings  that  were  dark 
with  sleet?  Pancrazio  would  bring  a  kettle  of  hot  water  at 
about  half-past  eight.  For  had  he  not  travelled  Europe  with 
English  gentlemen,  as  a  sort  of  model-valet!  Had  he  not 
loved  his  English  gentlemen?  Even  now,  he  was  infinitely 
happier  performing  these  little  attentions  for  Alvina  than  at- 
tending to  his  wretched  domains. 

Ciccio  rose  early,  and  went  about  in  the  hap-hazard,  useless 
way  of  Italians  all  day  long,  getting  nothing  done.  Alvina 
came  out  of  the  icy  bedroom  to  the  black  kitchen.  Pan- 
crazio would  be  gallantly  heating  milk  for  her,  at  the  end  of 
a  long  stick.  So  she  would  sit  on  the  settle  and  drink  her 
coffee  and  milk,  into  which  she  dipped  her  dry  bread.  Then 
the  day  was  before  her. 

She  washed  her  cup  and  her  enamelled  plate,  and  she  tried 
to  clean  the  kitchen.  But  Pancrazio  had  on  the  fire  a  great 
black  pot,  dangling  from  the  chain.  He  was  boiling  food 
for  the  eternal  pig  —  the  only  creature  for  which  any  cook- 
ing was  done.  Ciccio  was  tramping  in  with  faggots.  Pan- 
crazio went  in  and  out,  back  and  forth  from  his  pot. 

Alvina  stroked  her  brow  and  decided  on  a  method.  Once 
she  was  rid  of  Pancrazio,  she  would  wash  every  cup  and 
plate  and  utensil  in  boiling  water.  Well,  at  last  Pancrazio 
went  off  with  his  great  black  pan,  and  she  set  to.  But  there 
were  not  six  pieces  of  crockery  in  the  house,  and  not  more 
than  six  cooking  utensils.  These  were  soon  scrubbed.  Then 
she  scrubbed  the  two  little  tables  and  the  shelves.  She  lined 
the  food-chest  with  clean  paper.  She  washed  the  high  win- 
dow-ledges and  the  narrow  mantel-piece,  that  had  large  mounds 
of  dusty  candle-wax,  in  deposits.  Then  she  tackled  the  settle. 
She  scrubbed  it  also.  Then  she  looked  at  the  floor.  And 
even  she,  English  housewife  as  she  was,  realized  the  futility 


THE  PLACE  CALLED  CALIFANO  355 

of  trying  to  wash  it.  As  well  try  to  wash  the  earth  itself 
outside.  It  was  just  a  piece  of  stone-laid  earth.  She  swept 
it  as  well  as  she  could,  and  made  a  little  order  in  the  faggot- 
heap  in  the  corner.  Then  she  washed  the  little,  high-up 
windows,  to  try  and  let  in  light. 

And  what  was  the  difference?  A  dank  wet  soapy  smell,  and 
not  much  more.  Maria  had  kept  scuffling  admiringly  in  and 
out,  crying  her  wonderment  and  approval.  She  had  most 
ostentatiously  chased  out  an  obtrusive  hen,  from  this  temple 
of  cleanliness.  And  that  was  all. 

It  was  hopeless.  The  same  black  walls,  the  same  floor, 
the  same  cold  from  behind,  the  same  green-oak  wood-smoke, 
the  same  bucket  of  water  from  the  well  —  the  same  come- 
and-go  of  aimless  busy  men,  the  same  cackle  of  wet  hens,  the 
same  hopeless  nothingness. 

Alvina  stood  up  against  it  for  a  time.  And  then  she 
caught  a  bad  cold,  and  was  wretched.  Probably  it  was  the 
wood-smoke.  But  her  chest  was  raw,  she  felt  weak  and 
miserable.  She  could  not  sit  in  her  bedroom,  for  it  was 
too  cold.  If  she  sat  in  the  darkness  of  the  kitchen  she  was 
hurt  with  smoke,  and  perpetually  cold  behind  her  neck.  And 
Pancrazio  rather  resented  the  amount  of  faggots  consumed 
for  nothing.  The  only  hope  would  have  been  in  work.  But 
there  was  nothing  in  that  house  to  be  done.  How  could  she 
even  sew? 

She  was  to  prepare  the  mid-day  and  evening  meals.  But 
with  no  pots,  and  over  a  smoking  wood  fire,  what  could  she 
prepare?  Black  and  greasy,  she  boiled  potatoes  and  fried 
meat  in  lard,  in  a  long-handled  frying  pan.  Then  Pancrazio 
decreed  that  Maria  should  prepare  macaroni  with  the  tomato 
sauce,  and  thick  vegetable  soup,  and  sometimes  polenta.  This 
coarse,  heavy  food  was  wearying  beyond  words. 

Alvina  began  to  feel  she  would  die,  in  the  awful  comfort- 
less meaninglessness  of  it  all.  True,  sunny  days  returned 
and  some  magic.  But  she  was  weak  and  feverish  with  her 
cold,  which  would  not  get  better.  So  that  even  in  the  sun- 
shine the  crude  comfortlessness  and  inferior  savagery  of  the 
place  only  repelled  her. 

The  others  were  depressed  when  she  was  unhappy. 

"Do  you  wish  you  were  back  in  England?  "  Ciccio  asked 
her,  with  a  little  sardonic  bitterness  in  his  voice.  She  looked 
at  him  without  answering.  He  ducked  and  went  away. 


356  THE  LOST  GIRL 

"We  will  make  a  fire-place  in  the  other  bedroom/  said 
Pancrazio. 

No  sooner  said  than  done.  Ciccio  persuaded  Alvina  to 
stay  in  bed  a  few  days.  She  was  thankful  to  take  refuge. 
Then  she  heard  a  rare  come-and-go.  Pancrazio,  Ciccio,  Gio- 
vanni, Maria  and  a  mason  all  set  about  the  fire-place.  Up 
and  down  stairs  they  went,  Maria  carrying  stone  and  lime  on 
her  head,  and  swerving  in  Alvina's  doorway,  with  her  burden 
perched  aloft,  to  shout  a  few  unintelligible  words.  In  the 
intervals  of  lime-carrying  she  brought  the  invalid  her  soup 
or  her  coffee  or  her  hot  milk. 

It  turned  out  quite  a  good  job  —  a  pleasant  room  with  two 
windows,  that  would  have  all  the  sun  in  the  afternoon,  and 
would  see  the  mountains  on  one  hand,  the  far-off  village 
perched  up  on  the  other.  When  she  was  well  enough  they 
set  off  one  early  Monday  morning  to  the  market  in  Ossona. 
They  left  the  house  by  star-light,  but  dawn  was  coming  by 
the  time  they  reached  the  river.  At  the  highroad,  Pan- 
crazio harnessed  the  ass,  and  after  endless  delay  they  jogged 
off  to  Ossona.  The  dawning  mountains  were  wonderful,  dim- 
green  and  mauve  and  rose,  the  ground  rang  with  frost.  Along 
the  roads  many  peasants  were  trooping  to  market,  women 
in  their  best  dresses,  some  of  thick  heavy  silk  with  the  white, 
full-sleeved  bodices,  dresses  green,  lavender,  dark-red,  with 
gay  kerchiefs  on  the  head:  men  muffled  in  cloaks,  treading 
silently  in  their  pointed  skin  sandals:  asses  with  loads,  carts 
full  of  peasants,  a  belated  cow. 

The  market  was  lovely,  there  in  the  crown  of  the  pass,  in 
the  old  town,  on  the  frosty  sunny  morning.  Bulls,  cows,  sheep, 
pigs,  goats  stood  and  lay  about  under  the  bare  little  trees 
on  the  platform  high  over  the  valley:  some  one  had  kindled  a 
great  fire  of  brush-wood,  and  men  crowded  round,  out  of  the 
blue  frost.  From  laden  asses  vegetables  were  unloaded,  from 
little  carts  all  kinds  of  things,  boots,  pots,  tin-ware,  hats,  sweet- 
things,  and  heaps  of  corn  and  beans  and  seeds.  By  eight 
o'clock  in  the  December  morning  the  market  was  in  full 
swing:  a  great  crowd  of  handsome  mountain  people,  all  peas- 
ants, nearly  all  in  costume,  with  different  head-dresses. 

Ciccio  and  Pancrazio  and  Alvina  went  quietly  about.  They 
bought  pots  and  pans  and  vegetables  and  sweet-things  and  thick 
rush  matting  and  two  wooden  arm-chairs  and  one  old  soft 
arm-chair,  going  quietly  and  bargaining  modestly  among  the 
crowd,  as  Anglicized  Italians  do. 


THE  PLACE  CALLED  CALIFANO  357 

The  sun  came  on  to  the  market  at  about  nine  o'clock,  and 
then,  from  the  terrace  of  the  town  gate,  Alvina  looked  down 
on  the  wonderful  sight  of  all  the  coloured  dresses  of  the 
peasant  women,  the  black  hats  of  the  men,  the  heaps  of  goods, 
the  squealing  pigs,  the  pale  lovely  cattle,  the  many  tethered 
asses  —  and  she  wondered  if  she  would  die  before  she  be- 
came one  with  it  altogether.  It  was  impossible  for  her  to 
become  one  with  it  altogether.  Ciccio  would  have  to  take  her 
to  England  again,  or  to  America.  He  was  always  hinting  at 
America. 

But  then,  Italy  might  enter  the  war.  Even  here  it  was 
the  great  theme  of  conversation.  She  looked  down  on  the 
seethe  of  the  market.  The  sun  was  warm  on  her.  Ciccio  and 
Pancrazio  were  bargaining  for  two  cowskin  rugs:  she  saw 
Ciccio  standing  with  his  head  rather  forward.  Her  husband! 
She  felt  her  heart  die  away  within  her. 

All  those  other  peasant  women,  did  they  feel  as  she  did? 
—  the  same  sort  of  acquiescent  passion,  the  same  lapse  of 
life?  She  believed  they  did.  The  same  helpless  passion  for 
the  man,  the  same  remoteness  from  the  world's  actuality? 
Probably,  under  all  their  tension  of  money  and  money-grub- 
bing and  vindictive  mountain  morality  and  rather  horrible 
religion,  probably  they  felt  the  same.  She  was  one  with 
them.  But  she  could  never  endure  it  for  a  life-time.  It  was 
only  a  test  on  her.  Ciccio  must  take  her  to  America,  or 
England  —  to  America  preferably. 

And  even  as  he  turned  to  look  for  her,  she  felt  a  strange 
thrilling  in  her  bowels:  a  sort  of  trill  strangely  within  her, 
yet  extraneous  to  her.  She  caught  her  hand  to  her  flank. 
And  Ciccio  was  looking  up  for  her  from  the  market  beneath, 
searching  with  that  quick,  hasty  look.  He  caught  sight  of 
her.  She  seemed  to  glow  with  a  delicate  light  for  him,  there 
beyond  all  the  women.  He  came  straight  towards  her,  smil- 
ing his  slow,  enigmatic  smile.  He  could  not  bear  it  if  he 
lost  her.  She  knew  how  he  loved  her  —  almost  inhumanly, 
elementally,  without  communication.  And  she  stood  with  her 
hand  to  her  side,  her  face  frightened.  She  hardly  noticed 
him.  It  seemed  to  her  she  was  with  child.  And  yet  in  the 
whole  market-place  she  was  aware  of  nothing  but  him. 

"  We  have  bought  the  skins,"  he  said.  "  Twenty -seven  lire 
each." 

She  looked  at  him,  his  dark  skin,  his  golden  eyes  —  so  near 


358  THE  LOST  GIRL 

to  her,  so  unified  with  her,  yet  so  incommunicably  remote. 
How  far  off  was  his  being  from  hers! 

"  I  believe  I'm  going  to  have  a  child,"  she  said. 

"Eh?"  he  ejaculated  quickly.  But  he  had  understood. 
His  eyes  shone  weirdly  on  her.  She  felt  the  strange  terror 
and  loveliness  of  his  passion.  And  she  wished  she  could  lie 
down  there  by  that  town  gate,  in  the  sun,  and  swoon  for  ever 
unconscious.  Living  was  almost  too  great  a  demand  on  her. 
His  yellow,  luminous  eyes  watched  her  and  enveloped  her. 
There  was  nothing  for  her  but  to  yield,  yield,  yield.  And 
yet  she  could  not  sink  to  earth. 

She  saw  Pancrazio  carrying  the  skins  to  the  little  cart, 
which  was  tilted  up  under  a  small,  pale-stemmed  tree  on  the 
platform  above  the  valley.  Then  she  saw  him  making  his 
way  quickly  back  through  the  crowd,  to  rejoin  them. 

"  Did  you  feel  something?  "  said  Ciccio. 

"Yes  —  here — !  "  she  said,  pressing  her  hand  on  her  side 
as  the  sensation  trilled  once  more  upon  her  consciousness. 
She  looked  at  him  with  remote,  frightened  eyes. 

"That's  good-  "  he  said,  his  eyes  full  of  a  triumphant, 
incommunicable  meaning. 

"  Well !  —  And  now,"  said  Pancrazio,  coming  up,  "  shall  we 
go  and  eat  something?  " 

They  jogged  home  in  the  little  flat  cart  in  the  wintry  after- 
noon. It  was  almost  night  before  they  had  got  the  ass 
untackled  from  the  shafts,  at  the  wild  lonely  house  where 
Pancrazio  left  the  cart.  Giovanni  was  there  with  the  lantern. 
Ciccio  went  on  ahead  with  Alvina,  whilst  the  others  stood  to 
load  up  the  ass  by  the  high-way. 

Ciccio  watched  Alvina  carefully.  When  they  were  over 
the  river,  and  among  the  dark  scrub,  he  took  her  in  his  arms 
and  kissed  her  with  long,  terrible  passion.  She  saw  the  snow- 
ridges  flare  with  evening,  beyond  his  cheek.  They  had  glowed 
dawn  as  she  crossed  the  river  outwards,  they  were  white- 
fiery  now  in  the  dusk  sky  as  she  returned.  What  strange 
valley  of  shadow  was  she  threading?  What  was  the  terrible 
man's  passion  that  haunted  her  like  a  dark  angel?  Why  was 
she  so  much  beyond  herself? 


CHAPTER  XVI 

SUSPENSE 

CHRISTMAS  was  at  hand.  There  was  a  heap  of  maize  cobs 
still  unstripped.  Alvina  sat  with  Ciccio  stripping  them,  in 
the  corn-place. 

"  Will  you  be  able  to  stop  here  till  the  baby  is  born?  "  he 
asked  her. 

She  watched  the  films  of  the  leaves  come  off  from  the  burn- 
ing gold  maize  cob  under  his  fingers,  the  long,  ruddy  cone 
of  fruition.  The  heap  of  maize  on  one  side  burned  like  hot 
sunshine,  she  felt  it  really  gave  off  warmth,  it  glowed,  it 
burned.  On  the  other  side  the  filmy,  crackly,  sere  sheaths 
were  also  faintly  sunny.  Again  and  again  the  long,  red-gold, 
full  ear  of  corn  came  clear  in  his  hands,  and  was  put  gently 
aside.  He  looked  up  at  her,  with  his  yellow  eyes. 

"  Yes,  I  think  so,"  she  said.     "  Will  you?  " 

"Yes,  if  they  let  me.     I  should  like  it  to  be  born  here." 

"  Would  you  like  to  bring  up  a  child  here?  "  she  asked. 

"  You  wouldn't  be  happy  here,  so  long,"  he  said,  sadly. 

"Would  you?" 

He  slowly  shook  his  head:  indefinite. 

She  was  settling  down.  She  had  her  room  upstairs,  her 
cups  and  plates  and  spoons,  her  own  things.  Pancrazio  had 
gone  back  to  his  old  habit,  he  went  across  and  ate  with 
Giovanni  and  Maria,  Ciccio  and  Alvina  had  their  meals  in 
their  pleasant  room  upstairs.  They  were  happy  alone.  Only 
sometimes  the  terrible  influence  of  the  place  preyed  on  her. 

However,  she  had  a  clean  room  of  her  own,  where  she 
could  sew  and  read.  She  had  written  to  the  matron  and  Mrs. 
Tuke,  and  Mrs.  Tuke  had  sent  books.  Also  she  helped  Ciccio 
when  she  could,  and  Maria  was  teaching  her  to  spin  the  white 
sheep's  wool  into  coarse  thread. 

This  morning  Pancrazio  and  Giovanni  had  gone  off  some- 
where, Alvina  and  Ciccio  were  alone  on  the  place,  stripping 
the  last  maize.  Suddenly,  in  the  grey  morning  air,  a  wild 

359 


360  THE  LOST  GIRL 

music  burst  out:  the  drone  of  a  bagpipe,  and  a  man's  high 
voice  half  singing,  half  yelling  a  brief  verse,  at  the  end  of 
which  a  wild  flourish  on  some  other  reedy  wood  instrument. 
Alvina  sat  still  in  surprise.  It  was  a  strange,  high,  rapid, 
yelling  music,  the  very  voice  of  the  mountains.  Beautiful,  in 
our  musical  sense  of  the  word,  it  was  not.  But  oh,  the  magic, 
the  nostalgia  of  the  untamed,  heathen  past  which  it  evoked. 

"  It  is  for  Christmas,"  said  Ciccio.  "  They  will  come  every 
day  now." 

Alvina  rose  and  went  round  to  the  little  balcony.  Two 
men  stood  below,  amid  the  crumbling  of  finely,  falling  snow. 
One,  the  elder,  had  a  bagpipe  whose  bag  was  patched  with 
shirting:  the  younger  was  dressed  in  greenish  clothes,  he 
had  his  face  lifted,  and  was  yelling  the  verses  of  the  unin- 
telligible Christmas  ballad:  short,  rapid  verses,  followed  by 
a  brilliant  flourish  on  a  short  wooden  pipe  he  held  ready  in 
his  hand.  Alvina  felt  he  was  going  to  be  out  of  breath. 
But  no,  rapid  and  high  came  the  next  verse,  verse  after  verse, 
with  the  wild  scream  on  the  little  new  pipe  in  between,  over 
the  roar  of  the  bagpipe.  And  the  crumbs  of  snow  were  like 
a  speckled  veil,  faintly  drifting  the  atmosphere  and  powdering 
the  littered  threshold  where  they  stood  —  a  threshold  littered 
with  faggots,  leaves,  straw,  fowls  and  geese  and  ass  droppings, 
and  rag  thrown  out  from  the  house,  and  pieces  of  paper. 

The  carol  suddenly  ended,  the  young  man  snatched  off 
his  hat  to  Alvina  who  stood  above,  and  in  the  same  breath 
he  was  gone,  followed  by  the  bagpipe.  Alvina  saw  them 
dropping  hurriedly  down  the  incline  between  the  twiggy  wild 
oaks. 

"They  will  come  every  day  now,  till  Christmas,"  said 
Ciccio.  "  They  go  to  every  house." 

And  sure  enough,  when  Alvina  went  down,  in  the  cold, 
silent  house,  and  out  to  the  well  in  the  still  crumbling  snow, 
she  heard  the  sound  far  off,  strange,  yelling,  wonderful:  and 
the  same  ache  for  she  knew  not  what  overcame  her,  so  that 
she  felt  one  might  go  mad,  there  in  the  veiled  silence  of  these 
mountains,  in  the  great  hilly  valley  cut  off  from  the  world. 

Ciccio  worked  all  day  on  the  land  or  round  about.  He 
was  building  a  little  earth  closet  also:  the  obvious  and  un- 
screened place  outside  was  impossible.  It  was  curious  how 
little  he  went  to  Pescocalascio,  how  little  he  mixed  with  the 
natives.  He  seemed  always  to  withhold  something  from  them. 


SUSPENSE  361 

Only  with  his  relatives,  of  whom  he  had  many,  he  was  more 
free,  in  a  kind  of  family  intimacy. 

Yet  even  here  he  was  guarded.  His  uncle  at  the  mill,  an 
unwashed,  fat  man  with  a  wife  who  tinkled  with  gold  and 
grime,  and  who  shouted  a  few  lost  words  of  American,  in- 
sisted on  giving  Alvina  wine  and  a  sort  of  cake  made  with 
cheese  and  rice.  Ciccio  too  was  feasted,  in  the  dark  hole  of  a 
room.  And  the  two  natives  seemed  to  press  their  cheer  on 
Alvina  and  Ciccio  whole-heartedly. 

"How  nice  they  are!"  said  Alvina  when  she  had  left. 
"They  give  so  freely." 

But  Ciccio  smiled  a  wry  smile,  silent. 

"  Why  do  you  make  a  face?  "  she  said. 

"  It's  because  you  are  a  foreigner,  and  they  think  you  will 
go  away  again,"  he  said. 

"But  I  should  have  thought  that  would  make  them  less 
generous,"  she  said. 

"  No.  They  like  to  give  to  foreigners.  They  don't  like  to 
give  to  the  people  here.  Giocomo  puts  water  in  the  wine 
which  he  sells  to  the  people  who  go  by.  And  if  I  leave  the 
donkey  in  her  shed,  I  give  Marta  Maria  something,  or  the 
next  time  she  won't  let  me  have  it.  Ha,  they  are  —  they  are 
sly  ones,  the  people  here." 

"  They  are  like  that  everywhere,"  said  Alvina. 

"Yes.  But  nowhere  they  say  so  many  bad  things  about 
people  as  here  —  nowhere  where  I  have  ever  been." 

It  was  strange  to  Alvina  to  feel  the  deep-bed-rock  distrust 
which  all  the  hill-peasants  seemed  to  have  of  one  another. 
They  were  watchful,  venomous,  dangerous. 

"  Ah,"  said  Pancrazio,  "  I  am  glad  there  is  a  woman  in  my 
house  once  more." 

"  But  did  nobody  come  in  and  do  for  you  before?  "  asked 
Alvina.  "  Why  didn't  you  pay  somebody  ?  " 

"  Nobody  will  come,"  said  Pancrazio,  in  his  slow,  aristo- 
cratic English.  "Nobody  will  come,  because  I  am  a  man, 
and  if  somebody  should  see  her  at  my  house,  they  will  all 
talk." 

"Talk!  "  Alvina  looked  at  the  deeply-lined  man  of  sixty- 
six.  "  But  what  will  they  say?  " 

"Many  bad  things.  Many  bad  things  indeed.  They  are 
not  good  people  here.  All  saying  bad  things,  and  all  jealous. 
They  don't  like  me  because  I  have  a  house  —  they  think  I  am 


362  THE  LOST  GIRL 

too  much  a  signore.  They  say  to  me  '  Why  do  you  think  you 
are  a  signore?  '  Oh,  they  are  bad  people,  envious,  you  cannot 
have  anything  to  do  with  them." 

"  They  are  nice  to  me,"  said  Alvina. 

"  They  think  you  will  go  away.  But  if  you  stay,  they  will 
say  bad  things.  You  must  wait.  Oh,  they  are  evil  people, 
evil  against  one  another,  against  everybody  but  strangers  who 
don't  know  them — " 

Alvina  felt  the  curious  passion  in  Pancrazio's  voice,  the 
passion  of  a  man  who  has  lived  for  many  years  in  England 
and  known  the  social  confidence  of  England,  and  who,  coming 
back,  is  deeply  injured  by  the  ancient  malevolence  of  the 
remote,  somewhat  gloomy  hill-peasantry.  She  understood 
also  why  he  was  so  glad  to  have  her  in  his  house,  so  proud, 
why  he  loved  serving  her.  She  seemed  to  see  a  fairness,  a 
luminousness  in  the  northern  soul,  something  free,  touched 
with  divinity  such  as  "  these  people  here  "  lacked  entirely. 

When  she  went  to  Ossona  with  him,  she  knew  everybody 
questioned  him  about  her  and  Ciccio.  She  began  to  get  the 
drift  of  the  questions  —  which  Pancrazio  answered  with  re- 
serve. 

"And  how  long  are  they  staying?  " 

This  was  an  invariable,  envious  question.  And  invariably 
Pancrazio  answered  with  a  reserved  — 

"  Some  months.     As  long  as  they  like." 

And  Alvina  could  feel  waves  of  black  envy  go  out  against 
Pancrazio,  because  she  was  domiciled  with  him,  and  because 
she  sat  with  him  in  the  flat  cart,  driving  to  Ossona. 

Yet  Pancrazio  himself  was  a  study.  He  was  thin,  and 
very  shabby,  and  rather  out  of  shape.  Only  in  his  yellow 
eyes  lurked  a  strange  sardonic  fire,  and  a  leer  which  puzzled 
her.  When  Ciccio  happened  to  be  out  in  the  evening  he 
would  sit  with  her  and  tell  her  stories  of  Lord  Leighton  and 
Millais  and  Alma  Tadema  and  other  academicians  dead  and 
living.  There  would  sometimes  be  a  strange  passivity  on 
his  worn  face,  an  impassive,  almost  Red  Indian  look.  And 
then  again  he  would  stir  into  a  curious,  arch,  malevolent 
laugh,  for  all  the  world  like  a  debauched  old  tom-cat.  His 
narration  was  like  this:  either  simple,  bare,  stoical,  with  a 
touch  of  nobility;  or  else  satiric,  malicious,  with  a  strange, 
rather  repellent  jeering. 

"  Leighton  —  he  wasn't  Lord  Leighton  then  —  he  wouldn't 


SUSPENSE  363 

have  me  to  sit  for  him,  because  my  figure  was  too  poor,  he 
didn't  like  it.  He  liked  fair  young  men,  with  plenty  of  flesh. 
But  once,  when  he  was  doing  a  picture  —  I  don't  know  if  you 
know  it?  It  is  a  crucifixion,  with  a  man  on  a  cross,  and — " 
He  described  the  picture.  "  No !  Well,  the  model  had  to  be 
tied  hanging  on  to  a  wooden  cross.  And  it  made  you  suffer! 
Ah !  "  Here  the  odd,  arch,  diabolic  yellow  flare  lit  up  through 
the  stoicism  of  Pancrazio's  eyes.  "  Because  Leighton,  he  was 
cruel  to  his  model.  He  wouldn't  let  you  rest.  '  Damn  you, 
you've  got  to  keep  still  till  I've  finished  with  you,  you  devil,' 
so  he  said.  Well,  for  this  man  on  the  cross,  he  couldn't  get  a 
model  who  would  do  it  for  him.  They  all  tried  it  once,  but 
they  would  not  go  again.  So  they  said  to  him,  he  must  try 
Califano,  because  Califano  was  the  only  man  who  would 
stand  it.  At  last  then  he  sent  for  me.  '  I  don't  like  your 
damned  figure,  Califano,'  he  said  to  me,  '  but  nobody  will  do 
this  if  you  won't.  Now  will  you  do  it?  'Yes!  '  I  said,  'I 
will.'  So  he  tied  me  up  on  the  cross.  And  he  paid  me  well, 
so  I  stood  it.  Well,  he  kept  me  tied  up,  hanging  you  know  for- 
wards naked  on  this  cross,  for  four  hours.  And  then  it  was 
luncheon.  And  after  luncheon  he  would  tie  me  again.  Well, 
I  suffered.  I  suffered  so  much,  that  I  must  lean  against 
the  wall  to  support  me  to  walk  home.  And  in  the  night  I 
could  not  sleep,  I  could  cry  with  the  pains  in  my  arms  and  my 
ribs,  I  had  no  sleep.  '  You've  said  you'd  do  it,  so  now  you 
must,'  he  said  to  me.  'And  I  will  do  it,'  I  said.  And  so  he 
tied  me  up.  This  cross,  you  know,  was  on  a  little  raised 
place  —  I  don't  know  what  you  call  it  — " 

"  A  platform,"  suggested  Alvina. 

"  A  platform.  Now  one  day  when  he  came  to  do  something 
to  me,  when  I  was  tied  up,  he  slipped  back  over  this  platform, 
and  he  pulled  me,  who  was  tied  on  the  cross,  with  him.  So 
we  all  fell  down,  he  with  the  naked  man  on  top  of  him,  and 
the  heavy  cross  on  top  of  us  both.  I  could  not  move,  because 
I  was  tied.  And  it  was  so,  with  me  on  top  of  him,  and  the 
heavy  cross,  that  he  could  not  get  out.  So  he  had  to  lie 
shouting  underneath  me  until  some  one  came  to  the  studio  to 
untie  me.  No,  we  were  not  hurt,  because  the  top  of  the  cross 
fell  so  that  it  did  not  crush  us.  '  Now  you  have  had  a 
taste  of  the  cross,'  I  said  to  him.  '  Yes,  you  devil,  but  I  shan't 
let  you  off,'  he  said  to  me. 

"  To  make  the  time  go  he  would  ask  me  questions.     Once 


364  THE  LOST  GIRL 

he  said,  *Now,  Calif ano,  what  time  is  it?  I  give  you  three 
guesses,  and  if  you  guess  right  once  I  give  you  sixpence.' 
So  I  guessed  three  o'clock.  'That's  one.  Now  then,  what 
time  is  it?  '  Again,  three  o'clock.  'That's  two  guesses  gone, 
you  silly  devil.  Now  then,  what  time  is  it?  '  So  now  I  was 
obstinate,  and  I  said  Three  o'clock.  He  took  out  his  watch. 
'  Why  damn  you,  how  did  you  know?  I  give  you  a  shilling  — ' 
It  was  three  o'clock,  as  I  said,  so  he  gave  me  a  shilling  instead 
of  sixpence  as  he  had  said — " 

It  was  strange,  in  the  silent  winter  afternoon,  downstairs 
in  the  black  kitchen,  to  sit  drinking  a  cup  of  tea  with  Pan- 
crazio  and  hearing  these  stories  of  English  painters.  It  was 
strange  to  look  at  the  battered  figure  of  Pancrazio,  and  think 
how  much  he  had  been  crucified  through  the  long  years  in 
London,  for  the  sake  of  late  Victorian  art.  It  was  strangest 
of  all  to  see  through  his  yellow,  often  dull,  red-rimmed  eyes 
these  blithe  and  well-conditioned  painters.  Pancrazio  looked 
on  them  admiringly  and  contemptuously,  as  an  old,  rakish 
tom-cat  might  look  on  such  frivolous  well-groomed  young 
gentlemen. 

As  a  matter  of  fact  Pancrazio  had  never  been  rakish  or 
debauched,  but  mountain-moral,  timid.  So  that  the  queer, 
half-sinister  drop  of  his  eyelids  was  curious,  and  the  strange, 
wicked  yellow  flare  that  came  into  his  eyes  was  almost  fright- 
ening. There  was  in  the  man  a  sort  of  sulphur-yellow  flame 
of  passion  which  would  light  up  in  his  battered  body  and 
give  him  an  almost  diabolic  look.  Alvina  felt  that  if  she 
were  left  much  alone  with  him  she  would  need  all  her  English 
ascendancy  not  to  be  afraid  of  him. 

It  was  a  Sunday  morning  just  before  Christmas  when  Alvina 
and  Ciccio  and  Pancrazio  set  off  for  Pescocalascio  for  the  first 
time.  Snow  had  fallen  —  not  much  round  the  house,  but  deep 
between  the  banks  as  they  climbed.  And  the  sun  was  very 
bright.  So  that  the  mountains  were  dazzling.  The  snow  was 
wet  on  the  roads.  They  wound  between  oak-trees  and  under 
the  broom-scrub,  climbing  over  the  jumbled  hills  that  lay 
between  the  mountains,  until  the  village  came  near.  They  got 
on  to  a  broader  track,  where  the  path  from  a  distant  village 
joined  theirs.  They  were  all  talking,  in  the  bright  clear  air 
of  the  morning. 

A  little  man  came  down  an  upper  path.  As  he  joined  them 
near  the  village  he  hailed  them  in  English: 


SUSPENSE  365 

"  Good  morning.     Nice  morning." 

"  Does  everybody  speak  English  here?  "  asked  Alvina. 

"  I  have  been  eighteen  years  in  Glasgow.  I  am  only  here 
for  a  trip." 

He  was  a  little  Italian  shop-keeper  from  Glasgow.  He  was 
most  friendly,  insisted  on  paying  for  drinks,  and  coffee  and 
almond  biscuits  for  Alvina.  Evidently  he  also  was  grateful 
to  Britain. 

The  village  was  wonderful.  It  occupied  the  crown  of  an 
eminence  in  the  midst  of  the  wide  valley.  From  the  terrace 
of  the  high-road  the  valley  spread  below,  with  all  its  jumble 
of  hills,  and  two  rivers,  set  in  the  walls  of  the  mountains,  a 
wide  space,  but  imprisoned.  It  glistened  with  snow  under 
the  blue  sky.  But  the  lowest  hollows  were  brown.  In  the 
distance,  Ossona  hung  at  the  edge  of  a  platform.  Many  vil- 
lages clung  like  pale  swarms  of  birds  to  the  far  slopes,  or 
perched  on  the  hills  beneath.  It  was  a  world  within  a  world, 
a  valley  of  many  hills  and  townlets  and  streams  shut  in  be- 
yond access. 

Pescocalascio  itself  was  crowded.  The  roads  were  sloppy 
with  snow.  But  none  the  less,  peasants  in  full  dress,  their 
feet  soaked  in  the  skin  sandals,  were  trooping  in  the  sun, 
purchasing,  selling,  bargaining  for  cloth,  talking  all  the  time. 
In  the  shop,  which  was  also  a  sort  of  inn,  an  ancient  woman 
was  making  coffee  over  a  charcoal  brazier,  while  a  crowd 
of  peasants  sat  at  the  tables  at  the  back,  eating  the  food  they 
had  brought. 

Post  was  due  at  midday.  Ciccio  went  to  fetch  it,  whilst 
Pancrazio  took  Alvina  to  the  summit,  to  the  castle.  There,  in 
the  level  region,  boys  were  snowballing  and  shouting.  The 
ancient  castle,  badly  cracked  by  the  last  earthquake,  looked 
wonderfully  down  on  the  valley  of  many  hills  beneath,  Cali- 
fano  a  speck  down  the  left,  Ossona  a  blot  to  the  right,  sus- 
pended, its  towers  and  its  castle  clear  in  the  light.  Behind 
the  castle  of  Pescocalascio  was  a  deep,  steep  valley,  almost  a 
gorge,  at  the  bottom  of  which  a  river  ran,  and  where  Pan- 
crazio pointed  out  the  electricity  works  of  the  village,  deep 
in  the  gloom.  Above  this  gorge,  at  the  end,  rose  the  long 
slopes  of  the  mountains,  up  to  the  vivid  snow  —  and  across 
again  was  the  wall  of  the  Abruzzi. 

They  went  down,  past  the  ruined  houses  broken  by  the 
earthquake.  Ciccio  still  had  not  come  with  the  post.  A 


366  THE  LOST  GIRL 

crowd  surged  at  the  post-office  door,  in  a  steep,  black,  wet 
side-street.  Alvina's  feet  were  sodden.  Pancrazio  took  her 
to  the  place  where  she  could  drink  coffee  and  a  Strega,  to  make 
her  warm.  On  the  platform  of  the  highway,  above  the  valley, 
people  were  parading  in  the  hot  sun.  Alvina  noticed  some 
ultra-smart  young  men.  They  came  up  to  Pancrazio,  speak- 
ing English.  Alvina  hated  their  Cockney  accent  and  florid 
showy  vulgar  presence.  They  were  more  models.  Pancrazio 
was  cool  with  them. 

Alvina  sat  apart  from  the  crowd  of  peasants,  on  a  chair 
the  old  crone  had  ostentatiously  dusted  for  her.  Pancrazio 
ordered  beer  for  himself.  Ciccio  came  with  letters  —  long- 
delayed  letters,  that  had  been  censored.  Alvina's  heart  went 
down. 

The  first  she  opened  was  from  Miss  Pinnegar  —  all  war 
and  fear  and  anxiety.  The  second  was  a  letter,  a  real  insulting 
letter  from  Dr.  Mitchell.  "  I  little  thought,  at  the  time  when 
I  was  hoping  to  make  you  my  wife,  that  you  were  carrying  on 
with  a  dirty  Italian  organ-grinder.  So  your  fair-seeming  face 
covered  the  schemes  and  vice  of  your  true  nature.  Well,  I 
can  only  thank  Providence  which  spared  me  the  disgust  and 
shame  of  marrying  you,  and  I  hope  that,  when  I  meet  you  on 
the  streets  of  Leicester  Square,  I  shall  have  forgiven  you 
sufficiently  to  be  able  to  throw  you  a  coin  — " 

Here  was  a  pretty  little  epistle!  In  spite  of  herself,  she 
went  pale  and  trembled.  She  glanced  at  Ciccio.  Fortunately 
he  was  turning  round  talking  to  another  man.  She  rose  and 
went  to  the  ruddy  brazier,  as  if  to  warm  her  hands.  She  threw 
on  the  screwed-up  letter.  The  old  crone  said  something  unin- 
telligible to  her.  She  watched  the  letter  catch  fire  —  glanced 
at  the  peasants  at  the  table  —  and  out  at  the  wide,  wild  valley. 
The  world  beyond  could  not  help,  but  it  still  had  the  power  to 
injure  one  here.  She  felt  she  had  received  a  bitter  blow.  A 
black  hatred  for  the  Mitchells  of  this  world  filled  her. 

She  could  hardly  bear  to  open  the  third  letter.  It  was 
from  Mrs.  Tuke,  and  again,  all  war.  Would  Italy  join  the 
Allies?  She  ought  to,  her  every  interest  lay  that  way.  Could 
Alvina  bear  to  be  so  far  off,  when  such  terrible  events  were 
happening  near  home?  Could  she  possibly  be  happy? 
Nurses  were  so  valuable  now.  She,  Mrs.  Tuke,  had  volun- 
teered. She  would  do  whatever  she  could.  She  had  had 
to  leave  off  nursing  Jenifer,  who  had  an  excellent  Scotch 


SUSPENSE  367 

nurse,  much  better  than  a  mother.  Well,  Alvina  and  Mrs. 
Tuke  might  yet  meet  in  some  hospital  in  France.  So  the 
letter  ended. 

Alvina  sat  down,  pale  and  trembling.  Pancrazio  was 
watching  her  curiously. 

"  Have  you  bad  news?  "  he  asked. 

"  Only  the  war." 

"  Ha!  "  and  the  Italian  gesture  of  half -bitter  "  what  can  one 
do?" 

They  were  talking  war  —  all  talking  war.  The  dandy  young 
models  had  left  England  because  of  the  war,  expecting  Italy 
to  come  in.  And  everybody  talked,  talked,  talked.  Alvina 
looked  round  her.  It  all  seemed  alien  to  her,  bruising  upon 
the  spirit. 

"Do  you  think  I  shall  ever  be  able  to  come  here  alone 
and  do  my  shopping  by  myself?  "  she  asked. 

"  You  must  never  come  alone,"  said  Pancrazio,  in  his 
curious,  benevolent  courtesy.  "  Either  Ciccio  or  I  will  come 
with  you.  You  must  never  come  so  far  alone." 

"Why  not?"  she  said. 

"You  are  a  stranger  here.  You  are  not  a  contadina — " 
Alvina  could  feel  the  oriental  idea  of  women,  which  still  leaves 
its  mark  on  the  Mediterranean,  threatening  her  with  surveil- 
lance and  subjection.  She  sat  in  her  chair,  with  cold  wet 
feet,  looking  at  the  sunshine  outside,  the  wet  snow,  the  moving 
figures  in  the  strong  light,  the  men  drinking  at  the  counter, 
the  cluster  of  peasant  women  bargaining  for  dress-material. 
Ciccio  was  still  turning  talking  in  t1  -?  rapid  way  to  his  neigh- 
bour. She  knew  it  was  war.  She  noticed  the  movement  of  his 
finely-modelled  cheek,  a  little  sallow  this  morning. 

And  she  rose  hastily. 

"  I  want  to  go  into  the  sun,"  she  said. 

When  she  stood  above  the  valley  in  the  strong,  tiring  light, 
she  glanced  round.  Ciccio  inside  the  shop  had  risen,  but  he 
was  still  turning  to  his  neighbour  and  was  talking  with  all 
his  hands  and  all  his  body.  He  did  not  talk  with  his  mind 
and  lips  alone.  His  whole  physique,  his  whole  living  body 
spoke  and  uttered  and  emphasized  itself. 

A  certain  weariness  possessed  her.  She  was  beginning  to 
realize  something  about  him:  how  he  had  no  sense  of  home 
and  domestic  life,  as  an  Englishman  has.  Ciccio's  home 
would  never  be  his  castle.  His  castle  was  the  piazza  of 


368  THE  LOST  GIRL 

Pescocalascio.  His  home  was  nothing  to  him  but  a  possession, 
and  a  hole  to  sleep  in.  He  didn't  live  in  it.  He  lived  in  the 
open  air,  and  in  the  community.  When  the  true  Italian  came 
out  in  him,  his  veriest  home  was  the  piazza  of  Pescocalascio, 
the  little  sort  of  market-place  where  the  roads  met  in  the  vil- 
lage, under  the  castle,  and  where  the  men  stood  in  groups  and 
talked,  talked,  talked.  This  was  where  Ciccio  belonged:  his 
active,  mindful  self.  His  active,  mindful  self  was  none  of 
hers.  She  only  had  his  passive  self,  and  his  family  passion. 
His  masculine  mind  and  intelligence  had  its  home  in  the  little 
public  square  of  his  village.  She  knew  this  as  she  watched 
him  now,  with  all  his  body  talking  politics.  He  could  not 
break  off  till  he  had  finished.  And  then,  with  a  swift,  inti- 
mate handshake  to  the  group  with  whom  he  had  been  engaged, 
he  came  away,  putting  all  his  interest  off  from  himself. 

She  tried  to  make  him  talk  and  discuss  with  her.  But  he 
wouldn't.  An  obstinate  spirit  made  him  darkly  refuse  mas- 
culine conversation  with  her. 

"If  Italy  goes  to  war,  you  will  have  to  join  up?"  she 
asked  him. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  with  a  smile  at  the  futility  of  the  question. 

"  And  I  shall  have  to  stay  here?  " 

He  nodded,  rather  gloomily. 

"  Do  you  want  to  go?  "  she  persisted. 

"  No,  I  don't  want  to  go." 

"  But  you  think  Italy  ought  to  join  in?  " 

"  Yes,  I  do." 

"  Then  you  do  want  to  go  — " 

"  I  want  to  go  if  Italy  goes  in  —  and  she  ought  to  go  in  — " 

Curious,  he  was  somewhat  afraid  of  her,  he  half  venerated 
her,  and  half  despised  her.  When  she  tried  to  make  him 
discuss,  in  the  masculine  way,  he  shut  obstinately  against 
her,  something  like  a  child,  and  the  slow,  fine  smile  of  dis- 
like came  on  his  face.  Instinctively  he  shut  off  all  mascu- 
line communication  from  her,  particularly  politics  and  re- 
ligion. He  would  discuss  both,  violently,  with  other  men. 
In  politics  he  was  something  of  a  Socialist,  in  religion  a  free- 
thinker. But  all  this  had  nothing  to  do  with  Alvina.  He 
would  not  enter  on  a  discussion  in  English. 

Somewhere  in  her  soul,  she  knew  the  finality  of  his  refusal 
to  hold  discussion  with  a  woman.  So,  though  at  times  her 
heart  hardened  with  indignant  anger,  she  let  herself  remain 


SUSPENSE  369 

outside.  The  more  so,  as  she  felt  that  in  matters  intellec- 
tual he  was  rather  stupid.  Let  him  go  to  the  piazza  or  to 
the  wine-shop,  and  talk. 

To  do  him  justice,  he  went  little.  Pescocalascio  was  only 
half  his  own  village.  The  nostalgia,  the  campanilismo  from 
which  Italians  suffer,  the  craving  to  be  in  sight  of  the  native 
church-tower,  to  stand  and  talk  in  the  native  market  place 
or  piazza,  this  was  only  half  formed  in  Ciccio,  taken  away  as 
he  had  been  from  Pescocalascio  when  so  small  a  boy.  He 
spent  most  of  his  time  working  in  the  fields  and  woods,  most 
of  his  evenings  at  home,  often  weaving  a  special  kind  of  fish- 
net or  net-basket  from  fine,  frail  strips  of  cane.  It  was  a 
work  he  had  learned  at  Naples  long  ago.  Alvina  meanwhile 
would  sew  for  the  child,  or  spin  wool.  She  became  quite 
clever  at  drawing  the  strands  of  wool  from  her  distaff,  roll- 
ing them  fine  and  even  between  her  fingers,  and  keeping  her 
bobbin  rapidly  spinning  away  below,  dangling  at  the  end  of 
the  thread.  To  tell  the  truth,  she  was  happy  in  the  quiet- 
ness with  Ciccio,  now  they  had  their  own  pleasant  room. 
She  loved  his  presence.  She  loved  the  quality  of  his  silence, 
so  rich  and  physical.  She  felt  he  was  never  very  far  away: 
that  he  was  a  good  deal  a  stranger  in  Calif ano,  as  she  was: 
that  he  clung  to  her  presence  as  she  to  his.  Then  Pan- 
crazio  also  contrived  to  serve  her  and  shelter  her,  he  too, 
loved  her  for  being  there.  They  both  revered  her  because 
she  was  with  child.  So  that  she  lived  more  and  more  in  a 
little,  isolate,  illusory,  wonderful  world  then,  content,  more- 
over, because  the  living  cost  so  little.  She  had  sixty  pounds 
of  her  own  money,  always  intact  in  the  little  case.  And  after 
all,  the  highway  beyond  the  river  led  to  Ossona,  and  Ossona 
gave  access  to  the  railway,  and  the  railway  would  take  her 
anywhere. 

So  the  month  of  January  passed,  with  its  short  days  and 
its  bits  of  snow  and  bursts  of  sunshine.  On  sunny  days 
Alvina  walked  down  to  the  desolate  river-bed,  which  fas- 
cinated her.  When  Pancrazio  was  carrying  up  stone  or  lime 
on  the  ass,  she  accompanied  him.  And  Pancrazio  was  al- 
ways carrying  up  something,  for  he  loved  the  extraneous 
jobs  like  building  a  fire-place  much  more  than  the  heavy 
work  of  the  land.  Then  she  would  find  little  tufts  of  wild 
narcissus  among  the  rocks,  gold-centred  pale  little  things, 
many  on  one  stem.  And  their  scent  was  powerful  and  magical, 


370  THE  LOST  GIRL 

like  the  sound  of  the  men  who  came  all  those  days  and  sang 
before  Christmas.  She  loved  them.  There  was  green  helle- 
bore too,  a  fascinating  plant  —  and  one  or  two  little  treasures, 
the  last  of  the  rose-coloured  Alpine  cyclamens,  near  the  earth, 
with  snake-skin  leaves,  and  so  rose,  so  rose,  like  violets  for 
shadowiness.  She  sat  and  cried  over  the  first  she  found: 
heaven  knows  why. 

In  February,  as  the  days  opened,  the  first  almond  trees 
flowered  among  grey  olives,  in  warm,  level  corners  between 
the  hills.  But  it  was  March  before  the  real  flowering  began. 
And  then  she  had  continual  bowl-fuls  of  white  and  blue 
violets,  she  had  sprays  of  almond  blossom,  silver-warm  and 
lustrous,  then  sprays  of  peach  and  apricot,  pink  and  flut- 
tering. It  was  a  great  joy  to  wander  looking  for  flowers. 
She  came  upon  a  bankside  all  wide  with  lavender  crocuses. 
The  sun  was  on  them  for  the  moment,  and  they  were  opened 
flat,  great  five-pointed,  seven-pointed  lilac  stars,  with  burn- 
ing centres,  burning  with  a  strange  lavender  flame,  as  she 
had  seen  some  metal  burn  lilac-flamed  in  the  laboratory  of 
the  hospital  at  Islington.  All  down  the  oak-dry  bankside 
they  burned  their  great  exposed  stars.  And  she  felt  like 
going  down  on  her  knees  and  bending  her  forehead  to  the 
earth  in  an  oriental  submission,  they  were  so  royal,  so  lovely, 
so  supreme.  She  came  again  to  them  in  the  morning,  when 
the  sky  was  grey,  and  they  were  closed,  sharp  clubs,  wonder- 
fully fragile  on  their  stems  of  sap,  among  leaves  and  old 
grass  and  wild  periwinkle.  They  had  wonderful  dark  stripes 
running  up  their  cheeks,  the  crocuses,  like  the  clear  proud 
stripes  on  a  badger's  face,  or  on  some  proud  cat.  She  took 
a  handful  of  the  sappy,  shut,  striped  flames.  In  her  room 
they  opened  into  a  grand  bowl  of  lilac  fire. 

March  was  a  lovely  month.  The  men  were  busy  in  the 
hills.  She  wandered,  extending  her  range.  Sometimes  with 
a  strange  fear.  But  it  was  a  fear  of  the  elements  rather  than 
of  man.  One  day  she  went  along  the  high-road  with  her 
letters,  towards  the  village  of  Casa  Latina.  The  high-road  was 
depressing,  wherever  there  were  houses.  For  the  houses  had 
that  sordid,  ramshackle,  slummy  look  almost  invariable  on 
an  Italian  high-road.  They  were  patched  with  a  hideous, 
greenish  mould-colour,  blotched,  as  if  with  leprosy.  It  fright- 
ened her,  till  Pancrazio  told  her  it  was  only  the  copper  sul- 
phate that  had  sprayed  the  vines  hitched  on  to  the  walls. 


SUSPENSE  371 

But  none  the  less  the  houses  were  sordid,  unkempt,  slummy. 
One  house  by  itself  could  make  a  complete  slum. 

Casa  Latina  was  across  the  valley,  in  the  shadow.  Ap- 
proaching it  were  rows  of  low  cabins  —  fairly  new.  They 
were  the  one-storey  dwellings  commanded  after  the  earth- 
quake. And  hideous  they  were.  The  village  itself  was  old, 
dark,  in  perpetual  shadow  of  the  mountain.  Streams  of  cold 
water  ran  round  it.  The  piazza  was  gloomy,  forsaken.  But 
there  was  a  great,  twin -towered  church,  wonderful  from 
outside. 

She  went  inside,  and  was  almost  sick  with  repulsion.  The 
place  was  large,  whitewashed,  and  crowded  with  figures  in 
glass  cases  and  ex  voto  offerings.  The  lousy-looking,  dressed- 
up  dolls,  life  size  and  tinselly,  that  stood  in  the  glass  cases; 
the  blood-streaked  Jesus  on  the  crucifix;  the  mouldering, 
mumbling,  filthy  peasant  women  on  their  knees;  all  the  sense 
of  trashy,  repulsive,  degraded  fetish-worship  was  too  much 
for  her.  She  hurried  out,  shrinking  from  the  contamination 
of  the  dirty  leather  door-curtain. 

Enough  of  Casa  Latina.  She  would  never  go  there  again. 
She  was  beginning  to  feel  that,  if  she  lived  in  this  part  of  the 
world  at  all,  she  must  avoid  the  inside  of  it.  She  must 
never,  if  she  could  help  it,  enter  into  any  interior  but  her 
own  —  neither  into  house  nor  church  nor  even  shop  or  post- 
office,  if  she  could  help  it.  The  moment  she  went  through  a 
door  the  sense  of  dark  repulsiveness  came  over  her.  If  she 
was  to  save  her  sanity  she  must  keep  to  the  open  air,  and 
avoid  any  contact  with  human  interiors.  When  she  thought 
of  the  insides  of  the  native  people  she  shuddered  with  repul- 
sion, as  in  the  great,  degraded  church  of  Casa  Latina.  They 
were  horrible. 

Yet  the  outside  world  was  so  fair.  Corn  and  maize  were 
growing  green  and  silken,  vines  were  in  the  small  bud.  Every- 
where little  grape  hyacinths  hung  their  blue  bells.  It  was 
a  pity  they  reminded  her  of  the  many-breasted  Artemis,  a 
picture  of  whom,  or  of  whose  statue,  she  had  seen  somewhere. 
Artemis  with  her  clusters  of  breasts  was  horrible  to  her,  now 
she  had  come  south:  nauseating  beyond  words.  And  the 
milky  grape  hyacinths  reminded  her. 

She  turned  with  thankfulness  to  the  magenta  anemones 
that  were  so  gay.  Some  one  told  her  that  wherever  Venus 
had  shed  a  tear  for  Adonis,  one  of  these  flowers  had  sprung. 


372  THE  LOST  GIRL 

They  were  not  tear-like.  And  yet  their  red-purple  silkiness 
had  something  pre-world  about  it,  at  last.  The  more  she 
wandered,  the  more  the  shadow  of  the  by-gone  pagan  world 
seemed  to  come  over  her.  Sometimes  she  felt  she  would 
shriek  and  go  mad,  so  strong  was  the  influence  on  her,  some- 
thing pre-world  and,  it  seemed  to  her  now,  vindictive.  She 
seemed  to  feel  in  the  air  strange  Furies,  Lemures,  things  that 
had  haunted  her  with  their  tomb -frenzied  vindictiveness  since 
she  was  a  child  and  had  pored  over  the  illustrated  Classical 
Dictionary.  Black  and  cruel  presences  were  in  the  under- 
air.  They  were  furtive  and  slinking.  They  bewitched  you 
with  loveliness,  and  lurked  with  fangs  to  hurt  you  afterwards. 
There  it  was:  the  fangs  sheathed  in  beauty:  the  beauty  first, 
and  then,  horribly,  inevitably,  the  fangs. 

Being  a  great  deal  alone,  in  the  strange  place,  fancies 
possessed  her,  people  took  on  strange  shapes.  Even  Ciccio 
and  Pancrazio.  And  it  came  that  she  never  wandered  far 
from  the  house,  from  her  room,  after  the  first  months.  She 
seemed  to  hide  herself  in  her  room.  There  she  sewed  and 
spun  wool  and  read,  and  learnt  Italian.  Her  men  were  not 
at  all  anxious  to  teach  her  Italian.  Indeed  her  chief  teacher, 
at  first,  was  a  young  fellow  called  Bussolo.  He  was  a  model 
from  London,  and  he  came  down  to  Califano  sometimes,  hang- 
ing about,  anxious  to  speak  English. 

Alvina  did  not  care  for  him.  He  was  a  dandy  with  pale 
grey  eyes  and  a  heavy  figure.  Yet  he  had  a  certain  pene- 
trating intelligence. 

"  No,  this  country  is  a  country  for  old  men.  It  is  only  for 
old  men,"  he  said,  talking  of  Pescocalascio.  "  You  won't  stop 
here.  Nobody  young  can  stop  here." 

The  odd  plangent  certitude  in  his  voice  penetrated  her. 
And  all  the  young  people  said  the  same  thing.  They  were 
all  waiting  to  go  away.  But  for  the  moment  the  war  held 
them  up. 

Ciccio  and  Pancrazio  were  busy  with  the  vines.  As  she 
watched  them  hoeing,  crouching,  tying,  tending,  grafting, 
mindless  and  utterly  absorbed,  hour  after  hour,  day  after 
day,  thinking  vines,  living  vines,  she  wondered  they  didn't 
begin  to  sprout  vine-buds  and  vine  stems  from  their  own 
elbows  and  neck- joints.  There  was  something  to  her  un- 
natural in  the  quality  of  the  attention  the  men  gave  to  the 
wine.  It  was  a  sort  of  worship,  almost  a  degradation  again. 


SUSPENSE  373 

And  heaven  knows,  Pancrazio's  wine  was  poor  enough,  his 
grapes  almost  invariably  bruised  with  hail-stones,  and  half- 
rotten  instead  of  ripe. 

The  loveliness  of  April  came,  with  hot  sunshine.  Aston- 
ishing the  ferocity  of  the  sun,  when  he  really  took  upon  him- 
self to  blaze.  Alvina  was  amazed.  The  burning  day  quite 
carried  her  away.  She  loved  it:  it  made  her  quite  careless 
about  everything,  she  was  just  swept  along  in  the  powerful 
flood  of  the  sunshine.  In  the  end,  she  felt  that  intense  sun- 
light had  on  her  the  effect  of  night:  a  sort  of  darkness,  and  a 
suspension  of  life.  She  had  to  hide  in  her  room  till  the  cold 
wind  blew  again. 

Meanwhile  the  declaration  of  war  drew  nearer,  and  became 
inevitable.  She  knew  Ciccio  would  go.  And  with  him  went 
the  chance  of  her  escape.  She  steeled  herself  to  bear  the 
agony  of  the  knowledge  that  he  would  go,  and  she  would  be 
left  alone  in  this  place,  which  sometimes  she  hated  with  a 
hatred  unspeakable.  After  a  spell  of  hot,  intensely  dry 
weather  she  felt  she  would  die  in  this  valley,  wither  and  go 
to  powder  as  some  exposed  April  roses  withered  and  dried 
into  dust  against  a  hot  wall.  Then  the  cool  wind  came  in  a 
storm,  the  next  day  there  was  grey  sky  and  soft  air.  The 
rose-coloured  wild  gladioli  among  the  young  green  corn  were  a 
dream  of  beauty,  the  morning  of  the  world.  The  lovely, 
pristine  morning  of  the  world,  before  our  epoch  began.  Rose- 
red  gladioli  among  corn,  in  among  the  rocks,  and  small  irises, 
black-purple  and  yellow  blotched  with  brown,  like  a  wasp, 
standing  low  in  little  desert  places,  that  would  seem  forlorn 
but  for  this  weird,  dark-lustrous  magnificence.  Then  there 
were  the  tiny  irises,  only  one  finger  tall,  growing  in  dry 
places,  frail  as  crocuses,  and  much  tinier,  and  blue,  blue  as 
the  eye  of  the  morning  heaven,  which  was  a  morning  earlier, 
more  pristine  than  ours.  The  lovely  translucent  pale  irises, 
tiny  and  morning-blue,  they  lasted  only  a  few  hours.  But 
nothing  could  be  more  exquisite,  like  gods  on  earth.  It  was 
the  flowers  that  brought  back  to  Alvina  the  passionate  nostalgia 
for  the  place.  The  human  influence  was  a  bit  horrible  to  her. 
But  the  flowers  that  came  out  and  uttered  the  earth  in  magical 
expression,  they  cast  a  spell  on  her,  bewitched  her  and  stole  her 
own  soul  away  from  her. 

She  went  down  to  Ciccio  where  he  was  weeding  armfuls  of 
rose-red  gladioli  from  the  half-grown  wheat,  and  cutting  the 


374  THE  LOST  GIRL 

lushness  of  the  first  weedy  herbage.  He  threw  down  his 
sheaves  of  gladioli,  and  with  his  sickle  began  to  cut  the 
forest  of  bright  yellow  corn-marigolds.  He  looked  intent, 
he  seemed  to  work  feverishly. 

"  Must  they  all  be  cut?  "  she  said,  as  she  went  to  him. 

He  threw  aside  the  great  armful  of  yellow  flowers,  took 
off  his  cap,  and  wiped  the  sweat  from  his  brow.  The  sickle 
dangled  loose  in  his  hand. 

"  We  have  declared  war,"  he  said. 

In  an  instant  she  realized  that  she  had  seen  the  figure  of 
the  old  post-carrier  dodging  between  the  rocks.  Rose-red 
and  gold-yellow  of  the  flowers  swam  in  her  eyes.  Ciccio's 
dusk-yellow  eyes  were  watching  her.  She  sank  on  her  knees 
on  a  sheaf  of  corn-marigolds.  Her  eyes,  watching  him,  were 
vulnerable  as  if  stricken  to  death.  Indeed  she  felt  she  would 
die. 

"You  will  have  to  go?  "  she  said. 

"  Yes,  we  shall  all  have  to  go."  There  seemed  a  certain 
sound  of  triumph  in  his  voice.  Cruel! 

She  sank  lower  on  the  flowers,  and  her  head  dropped.  But 
she  would  not  be  beaten.  She  lifted  her  face. 

"  If  you  are  very  long,"  she  said,  "  I  shall  go  to  England. 
I  can't  stay  here  very  long  without  you." 

"You  will  have  Pancrazio  —  and  the  child,"  he  said. 

"  Yes.  But  I  shall  still  be  myself.  I  can't  stay  here  very 
long  without  you.  I  shall  go  to  England." 

He  watched  her  narrowly. 

"  I  don't  think  they'll  let  you,"  he  said. 

"  Yes  they  will." 

At  moments  she  hated  him.  He  seemed  to  want  to  crush 
her  altogether.  She  was  always  making  little  plans  in  her 
mind  —  how  she  could  get  out  of  that  great  cruel  valley  and 
escape  to  Rome,  to  English  people.  She  would  find  the  Eng- 
lish Consul  and  he  would  help  her.  She  would  do  anything 
rather  than  be  really  crushed.  She  knew  how  easy  it  would 
be,  once  her  spirit  broke,  for  her  to  die  and  be  buried  in  the 
cemetery  at  Pescocalascio. 

And  they  would  all  be  so  sentimental  about  her  —  just  as 
Pancrazio  was.  She  felt  that  in  some  way  Pancrazio  had 
killed  his  wife  —  not  consciously,  but  unconsciously,  as  Ciccio 
might  kill  her.  Pancrazio  would  tell  Alvina  about  his  wife 
and  her  ailments.  And  he  seemed  always  anxious  to  prove 


SUSPENSE  375 

that  he  had  been  so  good  to  her.  No  doubt  he  had  been  good 
to  her,  also.  But  there  was  something  underneath  —  malevo- 
lent in  his  spirit,  some  caged-in  sort  of  cruelty,  malignant 
beyond  his  control.  It  crept  out  in  his  stories.  And  it  re- 
vealed itself  in  his  fear  of  his  dead  wife.  Alvina  knew  that 
in  the  night  the  elderly  man  was  afraid  of  his  dead  wife,  and 
of  her  ghost  or  her  avenging  spirit.  He  would  huddle  over 
the  fire  in  fear.  In  the  same  way  the  cemetery  had  a  fascina- 
tion of  horror  for  him  —  as,  she  noticed,  for  most  of  the 
natives.  It  was  an  ugly,  square  place,  all  stone  slabs  and  wall- 
cupboards,  enclosed  in  four-square  stone  walls,  and  lying 
away  beneath  Pescocalascio  village  obvious  as  if  it  were  on  a 
plate. 

"  That  is  our  cemetery,"  Pancrazio  said,  pointing  it  out 
to  her,  "  where  we  shall  all  be  carried  some  day." 

And  there  was  fear,  horror  in  his  voice.  He  told  her  how 
the  men  had  carried  his  wife  there  —  a  long  journey  over  the 
hill-tracks,  almost  two  hours. 

These  were  days  of  waiting  —  horrible  days  of  waiting  for 
Ciccio  to  be  called  up.  One  batch  of  young  men  left  the 
village  —  and  there  was  a  lugubrious  sort  of  saturnalia,  men 
and  women  alike  got  rather  drunk,  the  young  men  left  amid 
howls  of  lamentation  and  shrieks  of  distress.  Crowds  accom- 
panied them  to  Ossona,  whence  they  were  marched  towards 
the  railway.  It  was  a  horrible  event. 

A  shiver  of  horror  and  death  went  through  the  valley.  In 
a  lugubrious  way,  they  seemed  to  enjoy  it. 

"  You'll  never  be  satisfied  till  you've  gone,"  she  said  to 
Ciccio.  "  Why  don't  they  be  quick  and  call  you?  " 

"  It  will  be  next  week,"  he  said,  looking  at  her  darkly.  In 
the  twilight  he  came  to  her,  when  she  could  hardly  see  him. 

"  Are  you  sorry  you  came  here  with  me,  Allaye?  "  he  asked. 
There  was  malice  in  the  very  question. 

She  put  down  the  spoon  and  looked  up  from  the  fire.  He 
stood  shadowy,  his  head  ducked  forward,  the  firelight  faint 
on  his  enigmatic,  timeless,  half-smiling  face. 

"  I'm  not  sorry,"  she  answered  slowly,  using  all  her  courage. 
"  Because  I  love  you  — " 

She  crouched  quite  still  on  the  hearth.  He  turned  aside 
his  face.  After  a  moment  or  two  he  went  out.  She  stirred 
her  pot  slowly  and  sadly.  She  had  to  go  downstairs  for 
something. 


376  THE  LOST  GIRL 

And  there  on  the  landing  she  saw  him  standing  in  the  dark- 
ness with  his  arm  over  his  face,  as  if  fending  a  blow. 

"What  is  it?  "  she  said,  laying  her  hand  on  him.  He  un- 
covered his  face. 

"  I  would  take  you  away  if  I  could,"  he  said. 

"  I  can  wait  for  you,"  she  answered. 

He  threw  himself  in  a  chair  that  stood  at  a  table  there  on 
the  broad  landing,  and  buried  his  head  in  his  arms. 

"Don't  wait  for  me!  Don't  wait  for  me!  "  he  cried,  his 
voice  muffled. 

"Why  not?"  she  said,  filled  with  terror.  He  made  no 
sign.  "  Why  not?  "  she  insisted.  And  she  laid  her  fingers  on 
his  head. 

He  got  up  and  turned  to  her. 

"  I  love  you,  even  if  it  kills  me,"  she  said. 

But  he  only  turned  aside  again,  leaned  his  arm  against  the 
wall,  and  hid  his  face,  utterly  noiseless. 

"What  is  it?"  she  said.  "What  is  it?  I  don't  under- 
stand." He  wiped  his  sleeve  across  his  face,  and  turned  to 
her. 

"  I  haven't  any  hope,"  he  said,  in  a  dull,  dogged  voice. 

She  felt  her  heart  and  the  child  die  within  her. 

"Why?  "she  said. 

Was  she  to  bear  a  hopeless  child? 

"  You  have  hope.  Don't  make  a  scene,"  she  snapped.  And 
she  went  downstairs,  as  she  had  intended. 

And  when  she  got  into  the  kitchen,  she  forgot  what  she  had 
come  for.  She  sat  in  the  darkness  on  the  seat,  with  all  life 
gone  dark  and  still,  death  and  eternity  settled  down  on  her. 
Death  and  eternity  were  settled  down  on  her  as  she  sat  alone. 
And  she  seemed  to  hear  him  moaning  upstairs  — "  I  can't  come 
back.  I  can't  come  back."  She  heard  it.  She  heard  it  so 
distinctly,  that  she  never  knew  whether  it  had  been  an  actual 
utterance,  or  whether  it  was  her  inner  ear  which  had  heard 
the  inner,  unutterable  sound.  She  wanted  to  answer,  to  call 
to  him.  But  she  could  not.  Heavy,  mute,  powerless,  there 
she  sat  like  a  lump  of  darkness,  in  that  doomed  Italian  kitchen. 
"  I  can't  come  back."  She  heard  it  so  fatally. 

She  was  interrupted  by  the  entrance  of  Pancrazio. 

"  Oh !  "  he  cried,  startled  when,  having  come  near  the  fire, 
he  caught  sight  of  her.  And  he  said  something,  frightened,  in 
Italian. 


SUSPENSE  377 

"  Is  it  you?     Why  are  you  in  the  darkness?  "  he  said. 

"  I  am  just  going  upstairs  again." 

"You  frightened  me." 

She  went  up  to  finish  the  preparing  of  the  meal.  Ciccio 
came  down  to  Pancrazio.  The  latter  had  brought  a  news- 
paper. The  two  men  sat  on  the  settle,  with  the  lamp  between 
them,  reading  and  talking  the  news. 

Ciccio's  group  was  called  up  for  the  following  week,  as  he 
had  said.  The  departure  hung  over  them  like  a  doom.  Those 
were  perhaps  the  worst  days  of  all :  the  days  of  the  impending 
departure.  Neither  of  them  spoke  about  it. 

But  the  night  before  he  left  she  could  bear  the  silence  no 
more. 

"  You  will  come  back,  won't  you?  "  she  said,  as  he  sat 
motionless  in  his  chair  in  the  bedroom.  It  was  a  hot,  luminous 
night.  There  was  still  a  late  scent  of  orange  blossom  from 
the  garden,  the  nightingale  was  shaking  the  air  with  his  sound. 
At  times  other,  honey  scents  wafted  from  the  hills. 

"You  will  come  back?  "  she  insisted. 

"Who  knows?  "  he  replied. 

"  If  you  make  up  your  mind  to  come  back,  you  will  come 
back.  We  have  our  fate  in  our  hands,"  she  said. 

He  smiled  slowly. 

"You  think  so?"  he  said. 

"  I  know  it.  If  you  don't  come  back  it  will  be  because 
you  don't  want  to  —  no  other  reason.  It  won't  be  because  you 
can't.  It  will  be  because  you  don't  want  to." 

"  Who  told  you  so?  "  he  asked,  with  the  same  cruel  smile. 

"  I  know  it,"  she  said. 

"All  right,"  he  answered. 

But  he  still  sat  with  his  hands  abandoned  between  his  knees. 

"  So  make  up  your  mind,"  she  said. 

He  sat  motionless  for  a  long  while:  while  she  undressed  and 
brushed  her  hair  and  went  to  bed.  And  still  he  sat  there  un- 
moving,  like  a  corpse.  It  was  like  having  some  unnatural, 
doomed,  unbearable  presence  in  the  room.  She  blew  out  the 
light,  that  she  need  not  see  him.  But  in  the  darkness  it  was 
worse. 

At  last  he  stirred  —  he  rose.  He  came  hesitating  across  to 
her. 

"  I'll  come  back,  Allaye,"  he  said  quietly.  "  Be  damned 
to  them  all."  She  heard  unspeakable  pain  in  his  voice. 


378  THE  LOST  GIRL 

"To  whom?  "  she  said,  sitting  up. 

He  did  not  answer,  but  put  his  arms  round  her. 

"  I'll  come  back,  and  we'll  go  to  America,"  he  said. 

"You'll  come  back  to  me,"  she  whispered,  in  an  ecstasy 
of  pain  and  relief.  It  was  not  her  affair,  where  they  should 
go,  so  long  as  he  really  returned  to  her. 

"  I'll  come  back,"  he  said. 

"  Sure?  "  she  whispered,  straining  him  to  her. 


THE  END 


